


lil bit

by jahleesi



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Language, Sexual Content, Violence, slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 237,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jahleesi/pseuds/jahleesi
Summary: it was his nickname for you. ( post bp killmonger/reader )





	1. the first three times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a world where Erik's dramatic ass wasn't so prideful as to refuse T'challa's help. It's much more interesting for villains to rise above that dark place and live with their actions, you know. I'm still hopeful he'll come back, film wise. For multiple reasons.
> 
> Black Reader. Obviously, right.

_"I wanna be living, for the love of you~"_

You've been staying at home for the week, all in preparation for the big day, and still the reasoning behind every person over 45's ability to be up at the crack of dawn after being up all night playing cards eludes you. It's ridiculous, it's asinine, and it's frankly a little inconsiderate to wake the neighborhood and all its inhabitants with some old Isley Brothers tracks. It's barely even 7 AM and you can already smell the Joop cologne creeping into your old bedroom from the bathroom next door, and you're glad to have showered the night before. The bathroom will definitely be held up until Christmas if your father can help it.

Stretching, you admire the smell of food cooking downstairs and wonder when did the Fourth of July become such a big deal around here. Outside of the obvious, there are exactly two aunts and two cousins on both sides of the family celebrating birthdays this week and every year your parents host this huge cookout in the empty housing plot across the street. It was theoretically there for someone looking to move into the subdivision to build on but it's been such a summer staple around these parts that the complex leaves it as is. Grills, inflatable playthings, loud ass cars rumbling somewhere nearby; it's tradition.

Tradition is tiring, though, and you can only really handle this much family once a year.

You could do without the annual problematic ranting from one of your drunk old head relatives. It's a game of russian roulette to engage in conversation with anyone over the age of 40 during a cookout.

Even so, lazing around in bed won't prolong the inevitable, so you jump to your feet, spooking the family pit bull, Zeus. He's a blue, mixed with something or other to give him a little more length to his legs but that big ass head is True Pit. Only one of his ears is cropped, a process interrupted by your theatrics in high school. Zeus was a puppy then, crying pitifully at the homemade cosmetic surgery being done by your uncle and you'd damn near killed yourself trying to stop it. As if these neurotic babies need another reason to look tough from assholes in the neighborhood trying to flex with ill taken care of pets.

His collar jingles loudly as he moves around the bedroom, and you're still half asleep on your way out the door. You get caught sneaking food by your mom, who pops you on the hand with a wooden spoon without missing a beat. She's bopping around the room as if you're not even there, throwing ingredients into pans and reheating others in the oven. Usually your family is in unofficial charge of cold pasta salads and the more healthier sides, but you note that everything bubbling on the stove contains at least a half a pound of lard.

After letting Zeus outside into the backyard you're almost immediately accosted by a slew of younger cousins you hadn't even noticed. The two youngest (and baddest), Mya and Cortez, latch onto your legs like little dead weights that nearly send you mouth first into the kitchen table. Their mother, your oldest first cousin, shoots you a hello before impatiently shouting for her kids to sit down somewhere. It's definitely too early to deal with everyone so for now you resolve to disappear into your temporary room upstairs to get dressed.

It's not until your friends and honorary cousins, Kayla and Sydney, come barreling into your "bedroom" that you again remember what today is. It's the fourth of july, a time for eating rich food, checking out the neighborhood boys that come through, and listening to your older relatives wax poetic about how rap is 'causing the decline of black youth'. The thought of last year's rant (innocently brought on by a kid humming to Kendrick), makes you laugh as you fix the last gold clip into one of your hanging box braids.

Kayla, in all her aggravating glory, starts pinching your butt in the denim cut offs that will for sure make your dad pop a blood vessel. "Where the hell are you going in these, young lady?"

Both you and Sydney have to laugh, because being 21 doesn't mean shit when it comes to your parents. Hell, on your birthday you were barely allowed to order more than one shot at the sports bar your parents took you to. Little did they know how lit you got with your friends a few hours later.

That hangover still gives you nightmares whenever you think of it.

You look at the three of you in the mirror. You, in your bandeau under an oversized thin denim shirt tied at the bottom and your black Doc Martens to offset it. Kayla is always so relaxed in the summer, finding her without a heavily accessorized maxi dress on is blasphemy. Her bun is slicked back to perfection and you still haven't figured out how the hell she gets it to lay so flat. She won't tell you. Sydney is more like you in that catching her in pants is absolutely unheard off. Her dress is barely covering her ass and you can't wait to hear the sneers from your aunts about it. 'Who is her mother.' These kids today.

Syd takes a rough seat on the hard bed you've been sleeping on all week. Judging by her facial expression the firmness takes her by surprise.

"Who's coming today?" you ask, spraying perfume. "Do you know?"

She shrugs. "You know Malcolm's dad? From around the corner or wherever he was at? He works at some company or whatever-"

Kayla cuts in with, "You are so good at tellin' stories."

"Shut up, bitch!"

You raise both hands up to try take control of the situation but it's too late and they're already bickering. Getting between the two of their arguments is worthless unless you want a headache so you go ahead and start peeking through the curtains to see who's outside.

\--

Barely 2 pm and there's already a million people outside, friends and family and friends of friends of friends of friends. It's like people are traveling in little packs, kids running around and music bumping from parked cars. You can see the little tent where the fireworks for tonight are stockpiled and it looks like one of those side-of-the-road shops that always pop up around this time. Hearing all the noise makes you eager to be out there and you push past your bickering friends to get to the stairs.

You've somehow gotten suckered into taking down one of your little cousin's hair, a fresh set of braids done by some shop that clearly doesn't know what tension breakage is. She and her mom rolled up looking ready for the holiday, save for the tiny dots peppering her hairline. You were spotted and pleaded with, so you couldn't say no.

"Pass me that comb, M," you say to her, and she hands you the rattail she's been flinching at for the past twenty minutes. "Shoot, your mom wasted money but at least your braid out is gonna be cute."

This, she laughs at, but you can't help but wonder how in the world her tender headed ass survived the braids in the first place.

Kayla is too busy talking to some guy who isn't from around here to pay you any attention but Syd at least has the decency to come over with a can of cherry coke. It isn't a plate of that delicious looking baked macaroni you saw earlier, but you take it with a thanks and a smile. It's all you've had all morning and honestly the first sip gives you the shakes. Syd starts engaging you in some hot new gossip about the people you haven't seen in a long time and for a while you're actually content with this scenario, despite the hard concrete steps killing your backside.

"Ho-ly shit," says Syd suddenly, and you punch her in the arm for cursing around your cousin. You're liable for any and all profanities that make their way into their vocabulary.

But then you see what she's looking at, or who, and your cousin's head is all but forgotten. A part of you, the worst part, kind of wants to push her aside all in favor of making sure that group of guys a couple yards away can see how little you're wearing. Not to be a 'fast tailed hussie' as your grandmother would say, but you can tell a few of them are checking you and Sydney out.

You keep taking out your cousin's braids, suddenly hyper aware of eyes on you but trying not to let it affect your behavior. The key is to pretend you don't notice them noticing you.

Syd nudges you, pretending to look down at her phone. "You see that one in the back? With the bottle of Stella?"

You mutter, "Yeah," under your breath before digging around your old hair product bag. Truthfully, you noticed him first, it's almost impossible not to. He's sitting down but you can tell that he's tall, broad shouldered and a pair of arms that look like they could probably crush you with little effort. He's got an undercut, the dreads ontop falling to one side of his face and Lord above is his face one to admire. You can't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, and you wonder briefly if he's noticed you staring because a devilish smile appears on his face, sunlight gleaming for a split second off those gold fronts on his bottom teeth.

Truthfully, you're intimidated, because wanting guys to look at you isn't the same thing as dealing with them actually looking at you. You've never had much experience with guys outside of a few shy kisses and awkward fumbling in the dark, and it's like every moment being 21 is a constant game of Will I Engage With This Man? After All, I'm Grown. Your friends definitely need to teach you how to be easy; it's too hard.

You get to the last braid in no time, fluffing your cousin's hair with one hand while the other digs around for a toothbrush to swoop her baby hairs. It's cute, and definitely suits her more than those brain twisting braids. She breathes out a sigh at the relief and you can't help but laugh at her as she stands. "You good?"

"I'm good!" she says, giving you a thumbs up.

"Tell your mom she'd better save me a slice of that pineapple cream pie and we're good on payment."

Shouting an 'okay,' she takes off into the mess of mingling, dancing and gossiping people dotting the street.

Kayla decides to make an appearance now, smiling like she's won the lottery and you can only imagine what she'll be doing tonight. Leaving her in close proximity to a man of any kind results in the world stopping outside of her seduction bubble. She should give you some pointers.

And maybe she starts too, but you're too distracted by the commotion in front of you. People are parting like the red sea, yelling and trying to avoid the very curious and excitable pit bull running in circles. You sigh in frustration, because one of the kids probably let him out, and the last thing you need is to go to jail for stabbing a stranger over your dog. Zeus is a huge teddy bear, and neurotic as hell, so the more people try to avoid him the more he gets worked up into a frenzy. The guys you were noticing haven't moved, save for a few that are laughing at the dog that's running in circles around them. He hasn't moved. And you somehow feel like he's watching you rush over to where they're sitting with harsh whispers.

"Zeus," you snap, and he stops to run up to you, tail wagging furiously. "I'm sorry, was he bugging yall? Sorry."

He smirks at you again. "Nah, you good, lil bit."

Someone else offers you a beer from a cooler nearby and you take it, not even paying attention to who gave it to you. All you know is that it's unopened, and you need to get Zeus in the house less he spooks some more people. He follows you at full attention, tail wagging the whole time, and it's funny how people are staring at you like you've charmed the beast.

You guess they didn't notice his huge tricked out collar with polka dots all over it. Your pick, to make him look as fluffy as possible.

Back at your parents' house, Zeus cries like a baby when you try to get him inside, and you have no choice but to grab his leash off the door handle to calm your oversized child. So much for chilling and scoping out guys; he has a way of intimidating most people you come into contact with. The biggest downside of him living with your parents is that you don't get to use him as protection when you're alone. You couldn't even count anymore how many times you, alone or with your girls, have been spooked by random guys getting too close on the street. To remedy this you try to avoid staying out after dark unless it's completely unavoidable. That, and you carry mace.

Your dad wants you to start carrying a pistol but the thought makes you sick.

It's not until you're halfway down the street that you realize the bottle of Stella is still in your hand, rapidly warming up from both your body heat and the sun. The guy who gave it to you may as well have been Bigfoot because you paid no attention to anyone that wasn't the one who called you 'lil bit.' His voice was deep, and frankly did something to you you'd never admit outloud for fear of being clowned on. The man said all of one sentence to you and already you're about to fall out like some Old Hollywood starlet. Your friends would laugh at you if they knew.

Or rather, they'd probably relate.

In fact you know that they do, because your phone buzzes with emoji laden texts from both your friends.

_He lowkey hasn't stopped looking at you since you walked past! - Kay_

_If you don't want him i'll take him. - Syd_

Rolling your eyes you turn to look behind you, tugging Zeus' leash a bit to make him stop walking. Both of your dumb friends are hauling ass toward you with goofy smiles on their faces, attracting the looks of every man they pass. Especially Sydney, who's dress is damn near around her belly button by the time she gets to you.

Kayla gets to you first, and you see her punch coming before it happens.

"Bitch!" she says, deciding to shake you instead. "That man looks like a god."

"I'm pretty sure he is a god," goes Sydney next. "From Africa."

Now it's your turn. "Why from Africa specifically?"

"Cause he got an ankh around his neck."

Kayla rolls her eyes. "Every nigga in this damn neighborhood got those cheap ass ankh chains that's nothing special."

"I know real gold when I see it!"

And they're off again. You watch, amused, not even realizing you're being watched again until you look up to see Him jerk his head at you. Him, telling you to come over? You know he didn't really, you probably just imagined it, but you point at yourself in question all the same. He nods, but you're so frozen in fear at the thought of going over there that you stand there, wide eyed because you'd be damned if you humiliate yourself in front of a group of men. He has to be talking to either Kayla or Sydney because if you're being honest, they have 100 percent more Baddie Sex Appeal than you do.

He must be amused at your behavior, because rather than give up and try and talk to some other chick trying to get his attention he keeps looking at you, smirking as he takes another sip of beer. Now you're locked in a staring contest with him, wanting to save yourself some embarrassment but also too stubborn to look away.

One of his boys decides to humiliate you anyways, having the wherewithal to whistle at Zeus as if he isn't attached to a leash that is definitely, attached to your arm. The dog takes off, so happy and carefree because he knows that cookouts mean he'll get the rare treat of a hot dog or chicken bone. You damn near go horizontal, the leash still wound around your wrist, and your traitorous dog doesn't even stop once you hit the pavement with a hard smack.

Several people go 'oooo' and your idiot friends laugh, and you just want to cry because you'd like to go one gathering without being injured by your dog.

There's probably a reason, you think, why neither one of your thotty ass friends has helped you get up yet and when you decide to finally lift your head from the hot ground you see relaxed jeans and probably the cleanest sneakers in the entire get-together.

"You good, lil bit?" There's a smirk in his voice, he was probably laughing at you but honestly you can't blame him. Your betraying ass dog is back to investigate why you aren't on two feet, and you glare at him as the mystery man helps you to your feet.

"I'm good," you say, wincing. The blood dripping down your left leg says otherwise, pouring from your scratched up knee that has the nerve to be covered in gravel and dirt. You want to scream at the thought of it being infected, starting this awkward hop toward your parent's house with Zeus following behind. He's laughing at you again, and you turn to glare at him because to be honest it's his fault.

He smirks at your facial expression. "What, you sayin' that's my fault? Nobody told yo little ass to walk around here with a dog that's bigger than you."

You suck your teeth and keep hopping, because men suck, and your friends too for letting you lay out on the ground like that. Luckily nobody is really paying you any attention anymore, and you keep your head up rather than address the chuckling coming from behind you.

One of your aunts shouts your name and you have to squint around the groups of people milling around until you see her in a camping chair with a few others. You try really hard to listen to her question about why the hell you're bunny hopping down the sidewalk but the ground disappears from under you before you can find the words.

He lifts you like you're actively 2 pounds, and this gets some attention. Your relatives seem to be wondering who he is and the girls who you don't even know are turning their noses up at the fact that an absolutely iconic pair of arms are carrying you toward your parents' house.

After all that's happened you can't feel it in you to be nervous or embarrassed anymore, so you give instructions to go through the gate and into the side door. He sets you down, and now that you're alone you're even more intimidated than before. Pretending to be aloof and uncaring in the presence of guys only works if they look like clowns; and you have never, ever, seen a man so effortlessly fine in your life. But you're not stupid.

It's not until you find the first aid kit upstairs and he sets you on the bathroom counter by your hips do you feel like being stupid.

The whole time he pours (too much) antiseptic on your knee, you're just staring at him. Staring because he looks good, staring because he smells good, and staring because the longer you do the more you wish you did carry yourself like your friends; probably outside losing their minds if they saw him carry you in here.

Honestly you're surprised he's fixing your knee up, in your parents house, and what the hell even is this dude's name? You're being stupid, because he's a stranger and not even a familiar one at that. Not once in the past few years do you remember his face among the many that attend the block party, yet here you are, alone.

You hum as he's taping a piece of gauze to your aching knee, trying to ignore how the pain is radiating from it like fire. "You don't even know my name."

He snorts at you, everything you do amuses him, before standing up and staring at you dead in the face. One of his eyebrows arches ever so slightly and his breath smells like mint when he asks, "What's your name then, lil bit?"

Three times he's called you this and each time something inside you wanted to shout for the Lord and you're stuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually super nervous to post this adsfgkl I got a fanfiction ripped apart cinemasins style back in the day so i've always hesitated to write any.
> 
> Here's to the first one since 2010!


	2. and the next

You're not fast enough when he asks you for a name, you guess, because he goes 'hm' at you impatiently.

"____," you go, staring at his lips like a whole weirdo. But you can't help it, and you'd really rather be outside because you're starting to sweat.

He repeats your name, and when you ask his in return you're a little surprised at the answer. You'd never really put a name on a person per se, but he definitely does not look like an 'Erik.'

You avert your eyes from his, looking at your knee, waiting for him to do or say anything and save you from this oppressive silence. God, you're starting to sweat.

"What you doing with that big ass dog anyway?" he asks, cheesing. You falling must have been just so funny.

"I got him in high school," you say. "My apartment don't allow 'aggressive breeds' so I couldn't take him with me. And I need him."

"For what."

"Protection."

He leans forward a little, teasing, and infuriating you. "What you need protection from, ma?"

You shrug. "Niggas."

And that makes him laugh, flashing a set of white teeth with those golden fangs on his bottoms. You're captivated by his smile, and that shit is dangerous, but he takes mercy on you finally by stopping. He has one hand on your thigh and maybe you are little in comparison to him because it looks like he could damn near wrap his whole hand around you if he wanted.

"Yeah, I get that," he says, looking down at you. "I saw the way all these niggas out here were lookin' at you and your girls today."

You scoff at him and go, "Nobody was looking at me."

"What, you shy? You too fine to be shy, lil bit."

It takes you a full two seconds to realize he said you were fine, another three to realize that he noticed you over your friends. That apparently, other dudes were checking you out too. Insecure isn't a word you'd ever use to describe yourself, but your friends would tell you to work on being more confident in the presence of strangers. That in itself seems impossible as hell.

All you have to do is wear cut off daisy dukes and Doc Martens. And fall.

The severity of the fact that you're in your parents' upstairs bathroom is the least of your worries because the upside of being grown means you can run away under threat of being whooped.

After a hot second, his hand still on your thigh, you look up at him and try to read him. He keeps looking at you with this intensity, this confidence, but you know for a fact by the way he carries himself that it's a tad dark sided. A bit predatory. Something about him seems like he's the type to have gotten everything he wanted from girls, that he isn't used to being told 'no,' and you're used to avoiding those types of men. 

But you can't tell if that's a genuine reading or your brain overthinking, trying to find a reason to make this odd situation one worth getting out of.

"You got a man?" He suddenly asks you, still staring you dead in the face. You shake your head no and for a split second he seems surprised. You don't know how to take that.

"Why not."

"I don't know," you say. "Always find an excuse to not be bothered. I work, and I go home. My last boyfriend was a year and a half ago; he cheated and I set his apartment on fire."

"Goddamn," he says, and he seems impressed. "What you do all that for?"

Now you're smiling, becoming more comfortable as you talk. "It was an accident. I only wanted to burn his shoes and the shit caught fire."

He chuckles, suddenly removing his hand from your thigh and jerking his head in the direction of the door. You can't believe how utterly hypnotized you were to have a complete stranger in your parents, your parents' house without saying anything. People saw him carry you inside, and people talk, so you're not even a little bit surprised when you're accosted by a couple sirens wearing human skin once you step outside the backyard gate.

Kayla and Sydney open their mouth at the exact same time to no doubt start a synchronized calling of 'bitch' but they're shut all the way up by the way Erik tells you to follow him with one nod of his head. They catch it, because of course they do, and you could park two semis in their gaping mouths. You send a look that screams 'save me' , not because you hate this, but because you're scared shitless. Attractive men, men, like him are so intimidating. And you're afraid solely for the thoughts you're having about him snapping you in half like a twig.

Technically, you're not a virgin. Technically, your last boyfriend got you in the bed nearly five times and each time it seemed to get worse. He'd been your first and had the audacity, the nerve, to be so bad at it that you still consider yourself untouched. You could tell he wasn't really feeling you anymore, just doing things out of habit, some weird obligation he felt he had when all he had to do was break up with you. Guys never really know how to do things the easy way.

His boys are nowhere to be found when you make your way to a nearby picnic table, the only thing remaining of their presence a few empty swisher sweets packs and empty bottles of Stella Artois beer.You hate beer to be honest, but Stella seems the most palatable by far and you actually don't mind pretending to enjoy it socially. Erik slides you another one, cold, as you step up to sit on the tabletop.

"You gon' waste my shit again?" he asks, popping the top off. "Or drink it this time?"

You roll your eyes and take a sip, trying not to grimace. "Sorry for wasting your bougie ass beer. Bud Light is the official beer in my house ."

He frowns at you. "You like that shit?"

"Hell no."

This gets a chuckle out of him but soon he's doing that thing again, that stare thing where he appears to be looking straight into your soul and you're forced to look at literally anything else to keep from running away.

People watching is your favorite thing about these big summer events, and for a moment you forget all about Erik in favor of watching someone's Uncles argue nearby about a horseshoe game. It has to be about 80 degrees out today, but you wouldn't be able to tell with the tricked out polyester getups they have on. God, are their clothes loud as hell, purple and yellow and this weird lime green and it's looking at their sandals that gets you laughing. Beer goes dribbling down your chin, but you forget to be embarrassed because you forget you're currently in the presence of the finest man you've ever spoken to. Now you're mortified, wiping your face with your hand with wide eyes. 

The red lipstick you'd put on now decorates your hand like a bloody smear and God only knows what your face currently looks like. Everything that can possible happen to make you seem like a bumbling child seems to be taking place all at once and before you can run away screaming Erik beckons you closer with one hand.

He calls you 'goofy ass' before taking a napkin, moistened from the beer's condensation, and pastes it roughly to your face. You have to scoff at him, despite his playful, teasing, expression, before using your cell phone's screen to clean your face off. The lipstick was some cheap dollar store brand that frankly made your lips tingle a little, so it comes off as easily as it went on. Both Sydney and Kayla keep trying to make you stop being cheap when it comes to cosmetics, but you really can't help not wanting to spend twenty bucks for a tube of lipstick.

It's so weird being watched, but you vainly care more about your bare lips, reaching a hand into your clutch strapped around you to pull out a tube of lipgloss. It's colored, a subtle rose tint, but it tastes like medicine. Your ex used to complain like you stabbed him every time he kissed you while you were wearing it, and a whole lot of spite motivated you to keep buying it.

Some guy, probably one of his boys from earlier, comes over to say something that you can't hear, and the whole time he's just staring at you. He sucks his teeth at something, annoyed, before shooting an 'aight' back at whatever was just said.

Erik downs the rest of his beer before tossing the empty bottle in a nearby trash can. All the while he's still looking at you, but you're fully prepared for him to say he has to leave, forcing you to find some less-fine-by-comparison dude out here. You're already looking, gazing at the groups scattered around laughing or eating, turning all the way around on the tabletop.

"Damn, I ain't even left yet, shorty," comes the voice behind you and you have to pretend that you weren't blatantly ready to keep it moving.

"But you are leaving, right?" You ask, smiling.

"You want me to leave?"

If you're being honest, and you might as well, you shake your head no with a coy smile. You don't know this man, and he doesn't know you, but you wouldn't mind if that changed. Even if it was just to chill and talk; because God knows you missed that. It was the one thing you enjoyed doing with your ex, before he exposed himself as the bitch he is by cheating. You haven't thought about sex once, well not twice, and for that you feel a little proud of yourself; even if you long to actually experience the kind of back-breaking pleasure your friends boast about.

More importantly, though, you wonder why he's here. You've never seen him before so he's either crashing or was invited by someone. The crashing option seems far fetched, because it's pretty bold to just show up at a barbecue without knowing at least one person; not only that, to talk up the daughter of the providers.

The second you think of it, a voice calls your name. Your mother's loud, piercing voice that's so unpleasant when she yells you learned to behave the second you were born. She's behind you, waving a sheet of paper in the air as she approaches. You'd both gone and gotten box braids together when you first got here, and she's managed to pile them all into a heavy ball on the top of her head. It's not neat at all, and you kind of want to offer constructive criticism, but she shoves the list of demands at you before you can say more than a hello.

"Hurry up," she says, breathless. She's probably been running all over trying to find you. "Your daddy's reeking ass didn't buy enough of anything yesterday."

You snort, taking the list from her. "Why's he 'reeking'?"

She side eyes you, because you know, she knows, everyone knows how much your dad loves that disgusting old head cologne from the drugstore. Joop probably smelled good in 1989, but your nostrils burned something awful when your father hugged you good morning earlier. The bathroom still reeks of it, and you're definitely glad tonight's your last night here before you get back home and to work. That shit would definitely cling to your skin cells and you can't subject your coworkers to that fate.

As you read the list, your mom peeks around you to introduce herself to Erik. She remarks on how she's never seen him around before, and he says something about being invited by someone you can't hear but the name makes her hum in recognition. She tells him to enjoy himself before giving you another look and disappearing under a nearby tent.

You sigh, because the list is full of shit your dad forgot to buy, ranging from extra charcoal to premade vegetable kabobs. Those are your favorite but hoping to find any of it on the holiday doesn't seem likely. Most of the stores are going to close soon, so you hop up and nearly fall after putting weight on your scraped up knee.

"Shit," you hiss, because it hurts more than you thought. Bad enough to make you forego your shyness to hold an arm out to the amused man sitting in front of you. "Help me."

He just stares at you, long, before flicking his eyes to a spot behind you and when you turn you see some guys from the neighborhood looking dead at you. You've known them most of your childhood,their lives were as much a constant over here than yours and it's like for the first time all day you wish you weren't wearing cut off booty shorts. Those eyes were definitely not the ones you want to attract. One of them, Keith (whom you used to mockingly call 'Keith Sweat'), starts calling you and with a roll of your eyes you stomp over to his dad's set up.

Keith always annoyed you, ever since your 10th birthday party where he tried to make everyone play spin the bottle and kept cheating just to try and kiss you. It never worked, and you ended up spending your own party in a corner with your arms folded. "What, Keith?"

"What you mean 'what,' ____?" He scoffs, looking around you. "Who is that nigga?"

You roll your eyes again, but decide to tell the truth. "I don't know."

"You don't know."

"I don't know."

"Well you was sure smiling hard like you know," says another, Sean. "Dude look like he killed somebody."

While annoying, you do find the group amusing, so you let them all complain about you or your girls not giving them any play ('when all of you have grown up together') with a smirk on your face. Keith however, sees fit to ruin your good mood by reaching over to take your hand. You don't hide the obvious way you try and unravel your fingers from his. He's always been a thorn in your side, flirting and being an annoying child perpetually stuck with the social mentality of a fifth grade boy. You have no idea how someone grown could be so childish and lack the self awareness to realize that he's single because he acts this way. You've warned him before that he's going to get himself maced if he steps to the wrong girl.

The only reason you haven't is because his mom sends yall the best homemade sweet tea in cute mason jars and you'll be damned if you ruined that.

"Keith, let me go," you say, exasperated to the sky. "I don't have time."

He thinks it's funny, because he's 3, to ignore your request to be left alone and when you finally think you might break his fingers he lets you go. The absurdity of it has you staring dumbly at your own hands, until you turn back around to see the way Erik's just looking at all of you. If you were Keith, you'd definitely be intimidated, hell you're still intimidated but you're at least thankful for the opportunity to walk away. Maybe you needed him for protection rather than Zeus.

You fan yourself a little as you make your way to your car, parked in front of your parents' house because they would rather keep the driveway free for card game tables. Sydney and Kayla have been sitting on your porch, talking, and when they see the two of you they're back to staring at you with wide open mouths.

"I thought you were leaving," you say cheekily, unlocking the doors. It's hard to ignore the way he's blatantly looking you up and down; it kind of inflates your ego a bit.

He smirks at you. "I am."

But he hasn't left, and neither have you, because both his hands on your hips is reawakening the fact that you've been touch starved since your bad break up a year ago. It's making you want to be stupid, just for the vain attention, and it's like you have an angel on one side and a devil on the other. The angel is telling you not to frivolously fall for a random guy's touches, solely off a rebound. The devil, however, is telling you that you're young and maybe you need to be hoe-ish for a short spell. Why not?

He's been talking the whole time you've been in your head and you ask him what he said with a squint as if it'll make you hear better.

"I said you got a fat ass."

"Shut up!" you shout, laughing. "You gonna be here when I get back?"

He shrugs, but you give a hopeful look to say that he'd better. This party is going to be on until damn near midnight, and although the crowd usually thins out a bit by then it's still very much alive. After all, the fireworks cost a small fortune. It's supposed to be a collection plate type thing but you know your dad bought most of them.

His phone rings suddenly, and he answers it, leaving you in that weird social limbo of whether or not to end the conversation now that he's started another one. Whoever he's speaking to must just be asking him questions because all he does is say a bunch of 'yeah's and 'aight's, all the while leaving you hanging halfway out your car.

It's not until you get ready to just go does he lean over to smack you on the ass, and as you're cursing him out you thank the lord you decided to wear these shorts today. Sydney and Kayla approach then to join you in watching him walk off, phone still up to his ear and a move in his step that has you captivated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm transferring these from a google doc file so i'll try to make the chapters longer once i've caught up


	3. at least you'd be warm

By the time the sun finally sets you’ve probably showered nearly three times, just to get the stench of other people’s perfumes and barbecue smoke out of your clothes. It’s when one of your cousins dropped a red popsicle on your white shirt that you said ‘fuck it’ and pulled on an oversized tee and athletic shorts. Who’s going to see you this late at night? Everyone is going to be staring at the fireworks in the sky. Frankly, you can’t wait until it’s over and everyone scatters like roaches because they don’t want to be the ones to help clean up the field. You can usually get one or two funny snapchat videos off it.  
  
You hadn’t seen Erik again for hours and your more irrational brain has you wondering if he even existed; if he was some product your mind created out of sheer boredom and loneliness. After all, he was basically every fine ass hood dude fantasy you’ve ever had; even with the added attribute of intimidating the hell everyone with his presence. It’s stupid, you know, but that’s why it’s a fantasy.  
  
For the past few hours you and your girls have been crowded into the guest bedroom of your parents’ house eating and gossipping like you always do. In the presence of your best friends you have no problem grossly licking barbecue sauce off your fingers, or trying to use your acrylic nails to then pick meat out of your teeth. There’s none of that performative shit you always feel obligated to do in front of guys.

And speaking of which.  
  
Kayla eyes you from the foot of the bed, training her cell phone at you. You’re not entirely sure she’s filming you until she says, “-and here we observe _____, freshly showered and dressed in dick appointment shorts even though she swears she doesn’t have one.”

“I don’t!” you reply honestly, laughing. “I swear I don’t. At least I don’t think so. Anyway; these are comfortable and all my other shit is packed up!”  
  
Sydney tosses a balled up napkin at you and goes, “Yeah, sure. We heard him say you have a fat ass, and that’s facts, but it’s almost 10 o clock and you got on these shorts? C’mon, slim thick, we aren’t stupid.”  
  
You scoff at their teasing and go to stand in the mirror. The shorts, black and with a white stripe on either side, don’t seem especially sexy to you at all. You’ve probably been wearing ones just like it since your freshman high school gym class (the fact that you’ve only been doing squats since a few months ago is irrelevant). Thing One and Thing Two proceed to talk loudly about how big his dick would probably be, forcing you to bark at them to shut up as the three of you make your way downstairs and outside. Luckily your parents are nowhere to be found.  
  
Outside you can hear the shouting of someone saying the fireworks are starting so you hurry up and lead your recently fed dog into the basement. With the tv on and the upstairs door closed it’s basically soundproof down here; and considering your big bad pit bull is scared to death of loud noises it’s perfect.  
  
On the way out the back door you snag a pair of flip flops to try and give your aching feet a rest. Doc Martens may be the best grungy, industrial throwback you own, but they’re hell on the feet while you break them in. You’d only had them on a few hours before a blister had formed and bled on your left big toe. Screwed up knee, screwed up feet. Today has been perfect to you. Despite the many shitty things that happened after you had to leave, you’ve kept from snapping solely for the big fireworks show tonight. It’s always your favorite part of the barbecue.  
  
Several failures to get a group harmony on ‘Happy Birthday’ to your cousins and aunts nearly gave you a whole aneurysm but you can’t wait to watch the disaster on facebook later.

Outside, the crowd has definitely thinned out; what remains scattered around in groups, chilling out with drinks in their hands or lighting the dark street with their cigarettes. Several of your cousins had tried to hop in the car with you earlier, because usually when you got in the car during these, it’d be for one thing. But you’re too broke to buy weed, and too skittish to get it from a ‘guy’ when you’d gotten a dispensary card a year ago to help you get through the anxiety ridden days following your breakup. Afterwards, you barely indulged, even when your friends offered it. You laugh a lot when you’re high; and you kind of hate your laugh.  
  
You say hello to a few people that acknowledge you and your friends as you all pass, smiling even though they probably can’t see you after you pass from up under the streetlights. It’s cool out, refreshingly so, and you’re happy to not feel like you can’t move too much less you start pouring sweat.  
  
The three of you pass Malcolm and his dad, another staple from the neighborhood, and you remember briefly hearing he’d gotten a new job at some outreach center somewhere. Your mom was happy to hear it, but she got distracted by talking about someone hoarding plates so you couldn’t finish eavesdropping.  
  
“Congrats on the job,” you say to Mr.Winters as he leans over to hug you.  
  
He pats you on the back a little too hard with his huge hands before laughing. “Not really a new job, but a partnership. Thank you, though! I saw you talking with Erik earlier; you looking for job info too?”

Confused, you shake your head. “Nope,” you say. “Just talking. Do you know him?”  
  
Malcolm, who had been so engrossed in a handheld video game until now, decides to push up his glasses and address you. “You don’t know him?”  
  
“No?” Now you’re nervous, feeling like you probably should by their reactions. “Is he famous?”  
  
Malcolm shakes his head and says, “Nah. All he ever really does is check in at the center sometimes, so i’ve only met him once, but his cousin is a king.”  
  
Behind you, Sydney stomps her foot on the ground. “I fuckin’ knew it! African royalty.”  
  
She has to apologize for cursing in front of Mr.Winters and the whole time you keep trying to break through the noise and get more info out of Malcolm. He’s just boredly watching your friends go back and forth and it’s not getting any quieter until the first firework pop. Funnily enough it seems like it isn’t as loud as your friends and you have to apologize to Malcolm and his dad for their theatrics.  
  
You leave them to it, chuckling, walking a bit farther along the street to gaze up at the sky. These are the big guns, every explosion is so bright it lights up the entire street with each blast.  
  
It’s when you’re trying to get a video of the animal shaped fireworks that you hear a god damn from somewhere behind you. You sigh and press ‘stop’ on your cell phone, the recording ruined by the impromptu cursing, before turning around with an eyebrow raised. Another firework goes off then, purple light illuminating the few camping chairs sitting up on the sidewalk. You recognize a few of the guys from earlier, but most importantly you recognize Erik and the way he’s slouching in one of the chairs, smoke pouring out his mouth and a blunt in one hand.  
  
He’s not wearing those sunglasses anymore so you can see the way he’s looking you up and down from afar, and when he catches your eye he beckons you forward with one hand.  
  
With guys, you think, it’s better not to seem too eager. You’d rather die than let one believe he can tell you what to do, but this situation puts you in between a rock and a hard place. You tell your more rational mind to shut up for a second, limping over to where he sits with what you hope isn’t too much of an excited expression. Aloof, you have to remind yourself. Stay aloof.  
  
He has you standing there awkwardly, because all the chairs are taken up, and maybe you’re too slow because he pats his leg impatiently before taking another drag.  
  
“Wassup, lil bit,” he says as you, quite unbelievably, sit sideways on one of his legs. You try and rationalize it as it not quite being his lap, because if you were sitting on his lap, that’d only be a precursor to something more explicit and you definitely don’t think you have the constitution for that right now.  
  
You sigh, trying to get comfortable (his legs are hard) before answering. “Just watching the fireworks. My parents spent a lot so-”  
  
“Oh, this you?” he asks, pointing.  
  
“Yeah. Partly. I got four family members with birthdays today so we always throw this big barbecue every year.”  
  
Halfway through your sentence he pulls you to sit farther back on his lap and you have to admit it’s definitely more comfortable but now you’re even more nervous. You hope he can’t hear the tiny oh my god that escapes your lips but judging by the way he snorts he definitely does. He calls you goofy again and puts an arm around your hips but it’s the last either of you speaks for a while.  
  
The fireworks really are more impressive than anything you’ve ever seen downtown, and it’s so impressive you completely forget to react when he gets you leaning back onto his chest and it’s rock fucking hard. You keep trying to sneak glances at him and he isn’t even paying you any attention, just smoking at staring up at the lights with lazy eyes.  
Your ears are ringing from the noise but you’re happy for it. All you’ve been doing is inhaling what he’s been smoking and maybe that’s better for you than actually smoking it because you suddenly feel really relaxed leaning against him like this. How dangerous, you think, for you to let a complete stranger get you unguarded like this. With minimal effort he’s managed to completely lure you in, and you barely know anything about him. You don’t know if he just wants to sleep with you, you don’t even know if you want to sleep with him; but you do know that neither one of you could possibly be looking for a relationship so that leaves only one thing.  
  
And that freaks you out.  
  
You must fall asleep at some point, suddenly flinching at the sound of everyone clapping and screaming and your dumb ass got so relaxed in Erik’s lap that you missed the entire grand finale. You blame the blunt he was smoking with a pout, trying to stand up on legs that have long since fallen asleep themselves. They give out almost immediately, sending you tumbling forward face first into the grass. You manage to stop your entire grill from being full of dirt but in the process you both slam your injured knee into the ground and end up with your ass up straight to the stars.  
  
Now, falling in front of a bunch of guys after pretending to be an aloof, pretty bitch is bad enough; it’s falling in ‘dick appointment’ shorts in a way that would be disastrous if you weren’t wearing underwear that’s even worse. In fact, you decide that this is worse, because you happen to be wearing the most comfortable pair of underwear you own; tacky Avengers decorated things with the likeness’ of (your favorite) heroes.  
  
After getting yourself together you find that you are alone with Erik, the few guys hanging around him having left at some point during the show, and he’s looking at you and shaking his head like you’re an idiot. And that’s true, but you don’t appreciate his wordless accusation.  
  
“What you doin’ tonight, goofy ass?” He asks, and you note that he’s only ever said your name once. You wonder if he even remembers it.  
  
Peeling yourself off the ground and settling into a nearby chair, you try and think of all the shit you have to do tonight. Sydney and Kayla helped you with wrangling your clothes back into your duffle bags, but you have to stay behind and help clean up before you can head back. You definitely have work in the morning and the thought makes you groan.  
  
“Nothing,” you sigh. “I need to be getting home; I have to work tomorrow.”  
  
He nods, once. “Where?”  
  
“Do you actually care or are you just asking?”  
  
“I’m askin’,” he replies, snorting. “Now answer.”  
  
You frown squinting a little at his snippy voice before explaining your mundane job. It’s a standard data entry gig in some bank building downtown. It’s probably one of the easiest jobs you’ve ever done, yet it’s the most mundane and the most mind numbing. Every day for eight hours straight you sit in a cubicle in business casual dress with your headphones in, transferring tax information from physical forms to digital. The pay is good, really good, and a part of you was suspicious before actually getting through your first week. They have to offer decent money because no one would willingly submit themselves to something so boring on purpose.  
  
It makes you loathe looking at computer screens and the only positive thing about it is the in-building coffee shop. You’d be nothing without it.  
  
Erik hums once you finish venting about how much you hate your easy, well paying job, and you feel like a brat because there are people who have it much worse and work three hundred times harder than you. But still; your coworkers are annoying and your supervisor is a pervert and honestly the thought of going in tomorrow makes you want to cry.  
  
He asks you where it is, remarking afterward that it’s not far from where he lives and you wish you were so lucky. The commute from your apartment to your job takes around 45 minutes. An hour if traffic is bad.

More silence passes between the two of you, Erik watching everyone across the street scramble to clean up in the dark and you wanting to fall asleep right in the camping chair. In fact, you do, jostled awake soon after by him patting your thigh. “Aye, lil bit, get up.”  
  
“What?” you go, annoyed, but then you remember you aren’t in a warm bed. Just an uncomfortable chair in front of a house you don’t know the residents of.  
  
“I hope you don’t do this kinda shit when you by yourself,” he goes, raising his eyebrows at you. “Fallin’ asleep and shit.”  
  
“So I can’t fall asleep?” you ask, closing your eyes again as you lean your chin on one hand.  
  
“Nah, you look too good to be fallin’ asleep out in the open like this.”  
  
He’s right, about the sleeping in an exposed place at least, and you usually wouldn’t dare! But it’s been a long day, a long week, and you definitely piggybacked off his high to the point where the lawn in front of you may as well be a soft blanket. That’s your cue to get moving, so you peel yourself off the chair and reach straight up to the sky for a stretch. Several of your bones crack as you do so but you keep stretching, trying to pretend you don’t notice the way Erik is blatantly staring at your butt.  
  
You’re uncomfortable again; not because he’s checking you out but because you don’t know how to end this interaction.The two of you barely know each other, and while you find him interesting enough to want to change that, you can’t find a way to say goodbye. Too awkward to offer your number? Too thotty to want to go to his place? You’re stuck.  
  
“I’m gonna go,” you say, quiet and unsure. Your friends are nowhere to be found and the only presence that exists out here is the tiny squares of light from people using their cell phones to pick up firework debris. They’re almost done now, the garbage cans all lined up and filled with black bags for collection tomorrow.  
  
To the right of you, Erik’s half-lidded eyes are staring straight at you. For a second you wonder if he’s doing something wild like reading your mind; it has to be the reason he stares at you so much.  
  
After a few more seconds of this he suddenly goes, “You can roll with me tonight.”  
  
Confused, you point to your own car sitting a few houses down. “But-”

“How much shit you got?”  
  
It feels like your brain stops working but you somehow answer. “A couple duffel bags and a suitcase.”  
  
He nods and you’re even confused. If he wants to sleep with you he has an odd way of showing it; considering he seems the type to fuck someone in the back of a car. You’ve done that once, in your ex’s tiny two door Mustang, and it was probably the worst you’ve ever had. Considering your track record, that’s impressive.  
  
But on a more logical standpoint, it’s late, and Erik apparently lives closer to your job, saving you the awful morning commute. It makes sense, it really does, but your mind and your body are on two different wavelengths on your walk toward your parents’ house.  
  
The angel and the devil are back on your shoulders.

-

You hate lying to your parents, you really do, but it was much faster to get out of the house by telling them your girls were taking you home tonight. You helped the lie by inserting some truths- you truly are too sleepy to drive and there’s something about traffic lights at night that make you go cross-eyed.  
  
You just hope this impromptu decision born of lust doesn’t cause you to end up in a ditch with zip ties around your wrists. It’s an irrational fear that’s not all that irrational, making you so skittish around guys to the point where if you’re alone you try to avoid them at all costs. At the very least maybe you could make Erik your bodyguard. He could probably intimidate anyone without anything more than a look.  
  
The whole drive you’re wide awake, the loud west coast rap blasting through Erik’s speakers not even allowing you to blink let alone fall back asleep. It’s so loud you can feel the bass in your chest like your heart decided to say fuck it and start bumping to the music too. The cops are on the back of your mind as well, because this dude is fucking flying through town, and you’re scared shitless.  
  
Possible speeding ticket on one hand and hearing loss on the other, all the while your gracious Uber driver sits relaxed with one hand on the steering wheel and the other under his chin. He drives a sweet ass car, definitely the most expensive one you’ve sat in outside of that car show in Detroit you went to a couple years back, and it smells like leather. Your modest Cruze smells like several Hawaiian Breeze air fresheners, bought after you made the mistake of letting a garlic-heavy chicken shawarma sandwich bake in the summer heat. It’s all you can smell when you get in it, even still. Sydney says it makes her hungry while Kayla damn near gags each time you hang out together.  
  
Maybe you need to throw the whole car away, damn the 14k you still owe on it.  
  
The car suddenly slows to a safe speed, shocking you into paying attention to your surroundings and you don’t even recognize this part of town. It’s some neighborhood with one of those fancy keypads and iron gates that couldn’t keep out anyone if they really wanted to get in, moving at a speed so slow it makes you wonder how it hasn’t been mowed over yet.  
  
What also has you wondering, though, is the income of everyone in this culdesac. Every house is this special brand of California modern architecture, all blocky and built ontop of their garages rather than next to it. One of your uncles on your dad’s side does Architectural design and he’s always drawing up plans for houses like these. You wonder how many just like it are dotted around Cali.  
  
After seeing Erik the first time you wouldn’t have guessed he lived in a place like this or drove a car as expensive. You noticed soon after how everything he had on seemed expensive, but in that modest way because people don’t make sense. You’re sure you’ve seen a plaid shirt like the one he has on in a resale shop, but his probably came from some niche designer who makes expensive clothes that look cheap.  
  
You suddenly remember, as the two of you pull into a driveway, that Malcolm called him the cousin of a king. It makes sense for him to have money like this, but you decide to ask a little bit about the situation anyway, hoping not to step on any toes.  
  
“I heard your cousin is a king,” you say, looking over at him.  
  
“What? Oh, yeah,” he goes, getting out of the car.  
  
“Does that make you a prince?”  
  
“Somethin’ like that, c’mon.”  
  
He doesn’t seem annoyed or angry that you asked, but you decide to leave it alone anyways. Elaboration can wait after you’ve knocked out. He carries both your heavy duffle bags in one hand, using the other to unlock the front door. It’s dead silent outside, no bats or crickets or anything but the ringing of your ears and Erik telling you to hurry up.  
It’s freezing in his house, and dark, forcing you to grab onto his free arm for guidance and Lord above his muscles surprise you every time. You wonder if he can tell you’re blatantly moving your hands up and down his bicep in admiration, squeezing every now and again and nodding to yourself.  
  
“Shit, if you wanted to feel all up on a nigga all you had to do was say so.”  
  
“Sorry,” you say, embarrassed. “I’m just tired.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
You can practically hear the eyebrow raise in his voice and you can't blame him because what the hell kind of excuse is that, but then the lights come on and you don’t have to use echolocation like a bat anymore. The interior of his house is spotless, not a single thing out of place and it looks to you more like he just moved in but you know that’s not true. That, or he’s barely here, and that seems more plausible. However you can’t truly appreciate his decor because he’s already pulling you up the stairs and dropping your stuff at the top. He’s a fan of leaving you without a clue what to do, it seems, and for a second you stand in the carpeted hallway with a pout on your face. You’re seconds away from turning into a whiny brat, because you’re honest to god sleepier than you’ve ever been, and you’re liable to lay down right in the middle of the floor. You’ve slept in worse places.  
  
And his damn carpet feels like it’s made out of unicorn hair.  
  
In your sleepy haze you fail to actually see which room Erik disappears into so you wander,lost, past several closed doors until you reach a dead end. The statue head at the end of the hallway stares back at you in a way that makes you uncomfortable, with giant empty eyes and a gaping mouth that brings to mind the irrational fear of a neverending abyss. You’ve never vibed with art like this, even if it’s culturally significant. It’s always creeped you out in the worst way and the way it just sits at the end of the hallway, visible from the stairs, makes you want to leave.  
  
The hand gripping your arm nearly sends your soul catapulting out of your body and you shriek like a little girl out of fear. But it’s just Erik, and he’s staring at you like you’re crazy yet amused at the same time. He did that on purpose.  
  
“Thought you was tired,” he says, seeming tired himself, and you roll your eyes. As if anyone stepping foot in this place couldn’t give in to their curiosity for a second to roam. He seems like the type to have locks on all his doors that are all different in case someone finds the key. You don’t know why you think so but he seems very guarded, even though he’s hilariously invited a total stranger into his house off the notion that he’d take you to work tomorrow. You snort to yourself; you suppose this is a benefit of being considered somewhat conventionally attractive.  
  
And now that you’re alone with him again, in his house, the devil in your brain is feeding you all kinds of ideas about how long its been since you’ve been alone with a guy. Too long, painfully long, but you’re too embarrassed to do anything but slowly bump past him in the hall. His grip on your arm falls, fingers grazing your side and it honestly takes everything in you to keep walking back toward the staircase. “I’ll take the couch,” you say, smiling back at him. “Goodnight, Prince Erik.”  
  
He sucks his teeth and tells you to ‘get the hell on with that’, but you can hear the laugh in his voice as you descend. You’re definitely happy, because for a second you wondered if you offended him and that’s honestly the last thing you want to do. You can think of other things you’d like to do, you’re only human, but you want to talk it over with your friends first.

But all you can think of as you’re shivering on his oddly firm couch, is that you should have put out. At least you’d be warm.


	4. and now for something completely different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit language abound.

 

Life sure has a funny way of doing things, you think, waiting on the front porch for your Uber the next morning. You’re running on maybe a couple hours of sleep, having found no comfort on Erik’s couch, and a pounding headache vibrates right behind your eyes as you squint out at the expensive neighborhood.

Sure, he _told_ you he’d get you to work in the morning if you came home with him, but he never said he’d be in such a deep sleep that you wouldn’t be able to wake him if you tried. And you tried. You knocked, you called him, you stood over him in his bed (not for long because it felt too creepy), and you poked his legs to try and get him to wake up. He seems like the type to wake up swinging if startled so you never even tried to shake his shoulders. From what little of them you saw, though, they were covered in tons of uniform keloid scars that were arranged in a way that had to be intentional and your mind is definitely occupied as you sit on his porch. You’re curious about them, but you don’t really feel like trying to bring it up in conversation. From your experience, it’s best not to be nosy about a person’s self-inflicted scars.

Your Uber, a black Cruze just like yours, pulls up just as you get the urge to call off. It’d never work, your job is awful about calling off and anyone who does the day of gets an earful by the supervisors. There may be a chance you’ll be good if you suddenly contract something highly contagious. That, upsets work flow and thus cannot be tolerated.

The driver tells you good morning as you slide into the backseat, and all you can muster is a smile your head is pounding so bad. It hurt to even keep it upright, and you had to forego your usual makeup so as not to black out in that _beautiful_ bathroom in the downstairs hall. The countertop was black, granite or marble or maybe even some kind of rare gemstone, and you spent an embarrassingly long time just running your hands over the smooth surface. All in all, you emerged into this bright Monday morning with your eyebrows looking as if they met on the street and a big run in your tights from your nails. You look kind of a mess, all things considered, and you were forced to put your Docs back on after finding that they were all you had outside of flip flops and a pair of Nikes sandals.

Only one of the three are dress code compliant.

The simple babydoll dress you have on under your cardigan is the One staple you have at your job, and you wear a different pattern every day solely because it’s the only thing that both fits the dress code _and_ feels as comfortable as a pair of sweatpants.

Faster than you expect it to your phone vibrates, letting you know that you’ve arrived at work and it makes you sit up, dazed as you look out of the window. Sure enough, three times faster than you would have traveled alone, you see the wide glass and brick building stretching in front of you. A couple coworkers you speak to on a daily say hello as you make your way up the stone pathway, but you’re too focused on that short line in the coffee shop to pay anyone any mind.

Caffeine and sugar are usually good enough to quell your headaches until you can make it to a bottle of aspirin so you make sure to order a large coffee and _two_ cinnamon bagels. It’s going to be a long day.

  


It’s so long, actually, that it has you ready to quit by the end of it. Never in your life have you felt so miserable at work and you can’t decide if it’s your aching knee, your sore feet, the headache, or the fact that your body is punishing you for not sleeping with that absolute specimen last night. Hell, maybe if you got some you’d at least have gotten some good sleep. To top it off, you’ve been hiding in the downstairs lobby bathroom 10 minutes past your clock out time because a man from the mailroom won’t stop trying to take you out.

Sure, you’d date a white guy, if he was Steve Rogers or maybe Thor, but this dude couldn’t look more like a news report waiting to happen if he tried. More often than not you try not to be a bitch when it comes to making assumptions about people but you could only do so much with the faces provided to you.

With an annoyed sigh in the mirror you grab your purse and get ready to rush outside but he catches you just as you hit the revolving doors. God, do you hate men that won’t take the obvious social cues.

“I’m sorry,” you say, thinking of a lie. “I have a boyfriend already.”

He just goes ‘oh’ like he’s disappointed, and you wonder if you should’ve talked him up just to get a ride back out of it.

God throws you a curveball, however, because the last person you expect to see impatiently waiting on you is Erik. He’s leaning against his car, looking at you with his eyebrows raised in a way that basically tells you he’d been out here for a while. One jerk of his head has you practically running to him, because you have a bad compulsion to tip your Uber drivers good and your checking account is crying from the generosity.

When you get to him you don’t even say hello, just assaulting him with a breathless question of what’s going on behind you. “Is he looking at me?”

“Who.”

“White guy, striped collared shirt.”

“Yeah, and?”

Erik is quite taller than you, so you have to damn near climb him to place a fraudulent kiss right on those distracting, full lips of his. You know guys like your coworker, you can tell them all you want that you have a boyfriend but they won’t _truly_ leave you the hell alone unless they know you aren’t lying. And even though you _are_ lying, it helps to have an accomplice to help it along.

It’s the first kiss you’ve had since your damn breakup, and it shows in the way you definitely don’t want to pull away and if someone asked you a week ago if you’d be standing in front of your job and God, frenching a man with two hands gripping your ass for dear life you’d laugh and ask what Zane book they’d been reading.

Out of breath you finally pull away to peek behind you. Your persistent admirer has long since walked off and you sigh in relief. “Thank you.”

You get an ass smack in reply and you burst out laughing, pushing Erik away with both hands on his chest. “Grow up.”

“What?” he goes, stepping around to the driver’s side of the car. “You come runnin’ out here and think you can do all that and _not_ get that ass grabbed? You funny.”

All you can do is roll your eyes as he drives off, because you only kissed him to get your coworker to back off and you make sure to tell him this. He only scoffs, because the both of you know you’re full of shit. That was probably the best damn kiss you’d ever had.

It’s confusing to you how comfortable you feel around him, despite the fact that you literally know nothing about him, but he definitely fits the bill for interaction you’ve been missing since last year. You vent to him about your aching body, how shit your job is and how all you want to do is just eat a fat bacon cheeseburger and sleep. He agrees with you on that cheeseburger part before cutting himself off to ask why you took an UBer this morning.

“I couldn’t wake you up,” you say, chuckling.

“Damn. I must’ve been knocked out.”

Now you’re laughing. “Yeah! Shit, I’m trying to sleep that good.”

“Real shit?” he goes, looking over at you. “I got you, baby, don’t even worry about it.”

Now the alarms are going off in your head, and they’re not the Warning kind. They’re the ‘dick is definitely near’ variety, and it has you caught between a panic and irrational excitement. Your body is tingling from your head to all the way down south and its got you clenching your thighs together uncomfortably. You’re trying to be subtle, but you’re nervous, and the more nervous you get the more your body temperature raises and you’re a complete mess in the passenger seat of this Audi.

You get stuck in a row of traffic on the way out of downtown and you let out a shaky breath, peeling off your cardigan and folding it on your lap. Erik doesn’t seem to be bothered by the heat at all, so that lets you know it’s your own body doing this to you.

The light turns green but the cars literally don’t move and that’s always been a curious thing to you. Once it switches to red, the lane moves forward a couple feet. Wild.

“You good?” Erik suddenly asks you, looking amused.

“Yeah,” you say, throat dry. “I’m good.”

“You a virgin, huh.”

His question makes you whip your head around so fast it hurts again, but you have no idea what could possibly make him ask. He has to be the most capricious person you’ve ever met, seemingly switching moods and topics of conversations at the blink of an eye and you don’t know if that’s a good thing. But no, that’s probably your irrational mind looking for imaginary red flags, right?

With a huff you fold both arms and say, “No, i’m not a virgin, thank you very much.”

“Hm.”

“What’s ‘hm’ mean?” you ask, weirdly annoyed. “What you trying to say?”

“That you act like a virgin.”

“And how do virgins act?”

“Like you,” he says, smirking at your annoyed expression. “You all nervous and shit; I see you over there lil bit, you ain’t slick.”

So he noticed. You’re too tired to even feel embarrassed, so you roll your eyes at him now that he’s teasing you. It’s just _so_ funny to him that he spiked your body temp up without really doing anything. Men are dangerous and they hold too much power.

In fact, he’s still teasing you by the time you hit another long stretch of traffic, leaving you a stuttering mess as you try and weakly defend yourself against his allegations.

“You get wet every time niggas grab you, huh.”

“I don’t let dudes just touch my ass on the regular,” you say incredulously. “And i’m not.”

“Yeah you are, lil bit. I can tell.”

You are. And it’s only gotten worse with his teasing you but you have to stick with the lie. Keep it alive so you don’t lose this round. “I’m not. Go ahead and check.”

Why the hell did you say that, you wonder, closing your eyes. Why did that horny bitch residing in the back of your mind make her presence vocally known at the worst possible time? You usually keep her ass locked in the basement of your brain, guarded by your Rational thoughts. 

And right now she’s running rampant in your brain, blocking out all rational input and screaming at you now that Erik’s taken your bluff. You try to act unbothered, gazing out of the window at the traffic, unfazed as he reaches a hand under the waistband of your tights and feels you with a couple rough fingers. It’s like you erupt. You’re exposed as the dirty liar you are and you honestly never expected him to be so brazen as to actually call your bluff. It’s exciting; you’re excited, your Hoe Thoughts are excited, and most importantly you’re completely relaxed as your head falls back on the seat. 

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he says, and you stick your tongue out at him because you’ve definitely lost. “Nasty ass.”

-

 

 

_ Syd: You dead? Are you dead? You haven’t text us all night bitch what’s tea _

 

_ Kay: Nah, real shit. Answer the phone! _

 

You sigh, standing with a towel wrapped tightly around you in the upstairs bathroom of Erik’s house. The second you stepped foot back inside you all but ran into the bathroom to nervously wash off the day’s germs and maybe hide from your own libido for a second. You need clarity, some answers, you need your girls and you bounce back and forth between which one would be more helpful in the context.

Kayla answers on the third ring, yelling at you for not contacting her all day. You decide to get straight to the point. 

“I’m nervous as shit,” you hiss, trying to keep your voice from carrying out of the room.

“Of what?” Kayla asks, laughing at you. “After that bitch of an ex cheated on you last year you deserve some dick. Honestly.”

“But-”

She groans into the phone for a good 5 seconds to annoy you before saying, “If you don’t get off this damn phone and go. Tell us about it later.”

“Kay-”

“Shut up, bitch!” She’s cracking up at you now. “You waxed?”

“Yeah.” You know you shouldn’t  _ have  _ to, but you had a coupon to the spa.

“You showered?”

“Yeah.”

“That birth control?”

With a roll of your eyes you mutter an affirmative yet again, leading Kayla to hang up after another loud cackle at your expense. Honestly, you don’t know why you’re nervous. You think that maybe it has to do with the fact that this is a strict routine break; something completely new that’s forcing you to get out of the poisonous headspace created by your previous relationship. 

You lotion up and pull on a pair of sweats and a tee, spraying perfume in all the right places and trying to get out of your own mind because you need a break from thinking. That, ironically is all you think about as you slowly step into the hallway and try your hardest to pinpoint where the noise of a tv is coming from. The door to the master bedroom is ajar, the only one in this house that seems to not be locked so you start a slow creep toward it. 

When you peek inside, Erik is sitting up against the headboard flicking through tv channels lazily. It’s like he doesn’t even see you, but you definitely see him and those muscles bulging against the white tee shirt he’s got on. He’s wearing sweats now too, and you’re left staring hard at his body from the doorway.

“Wassup?” he asks you, still staring at the tv, and  you wonder if he forgot what went down and/or was implied on the car ride back here. That, or he wants you to initiate and that is definitely not happening under any circumstances. You never had to initiate with your ex, he always kind of hemmed you up and yall did the thing. Calling it ‘sex’ is something you hate doing though because you honestly don’t know what the hell that sorry excuse for a man was doing when he was ontop of you. 

You don’t know who he was thinking of , which girl out of the few he was apparently fucking with while pretending to be into you. The one you’d caught him with you’d actually met a couple times; this chick with terrible eyebrows and a poorly drawn pair of wings tattooed on her collarbone. You absolutely refuse to be made a fool of by a man again. 

That mentality has you folding your arms and waiting, expectantly, for Erik to stop pretending he actually wants to watch one of the 87 Tyler Perry movies stuck in rotation on BET and to fulfill the only reason you’re here. There’s only one reason he brought you home with him, and you’d have probably been back at your apartment already had you not been so exhausted last night. Once it’s said and done the awkward tiptoeing you’ve been doing around his house and his person and conversations will be over and for that you’ll be very happy.

The clatter of the remote control hitting the nightstand shakes you out of your thoughts, and you get a look at that walk of his you appreciate so much. It reminds you of a prowl, some silent movement a predator does right before devouring its prey and your idiotic comparison is interrupted promptly by Erik gripping your face with one hand. Gentle, but firm enough.

“You slow as shit,” he says to you, staring you down with that look in his eyes. 

“ _ You’re  _ slow as shit,” you say back, smiling. “I’m not used to having to come to dudes, they come to me.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, letting your face go and letting his hand fall to your arm. “Oh so you just have niggas flockin’ to you, then?”

You’re a bold faced liar, because your ex was the only man you’ve been with sexually, and you’re not quick witted enough to do anything but roll your eyes. Erik laughs, because he seems to know you’re lying, and your face heats up in embarrassment.

“Okay fine!” you say, sweating. “My ex was my first and only but he was trash so-”

“If he was your only how you know he was trash?” 

You just look up at him, because you know he knows that you know what trash is even if that’s all you’ve experienced. It’s like the time you tried real gravy for the first time. You’ve gone your entire life eating gravy the way your parents made it; flour, water, and a bouillon cube. It’s cheap, fast, and effective on a budget if not a little too salty for your taste. Kayla and Sydney fully made fun of you during your birthday dinner at The Cheesecake Factory where you got the taste of their Shepherd’s Pie and that gravy made of beef drippings. At first you wanted to gag, but by the end of the night you were damn near licking the bowl.

Your ex is bouillon gravy that seems okay at first but only really raises your blood pressure, and the man that tosses you on his soft bed is that birthday dinner at that crowded ass restaurant and you are not complaining. 

There’s this..black faux fur (or maybe it’s real) blanket at the foot of his bed and you get a little distracted by how soft it is. You hope it’s not real, it’d be kind of weird to fuck on top of what used to be on an animal. 

Erik snaps at you to ‘take that shit off’ and you scoff at his tone of voice but you start peeling off your old Prince tshirt all the same. He watches you with those eyes again, gaze traveling up and down your body as you remove each item of clothing. By the time you’re just in your panties you suddenly feel very exposed, figuratively as well as literally, and you try not to make it obvious how you’ve moved your braids to cover your chest like the Starbucks woman.

You pull your legs up to your chest and frown up at Erik, still clothed and sequence breaking the damn mood by not moving from his spot. You can’t quite tell if he’s still taking you in or if he’s waiting on you again but you say ‘fuck it’ to your anxieties and scoot over to him. Kneeling in the bed, you use your trembling fingers to lift his white t-shirt as far as you can before he takes it off himself. And  _ now  _ you can see what you’d only gotten a glimpse of this morning.

There are so many scars it makes your head spin, and frankly you’ve never seen them outside of a bored google search one time. You’ve always wondered if they’re soft, or if theyr’e hard, despite common sense lending itself to the former. Why would scar tissue be hard anyway? It’s not important, you muse, because you know better than to ask about people’s scars.

“Excuse me, sir,” you say, running your hands up and down his chest anyways. “I don’t have all day.”

It’s probably the first true statement you’ve spoken in the past couple hours. Work days usually lend you a couple hours of leisure before you have to eat dinner and get to bed so you can start all over in the morning and you  _ still  _ have to get your car back from your parents’ house.

You can barely register Erik’s scoff at you before your eyes are damn near rolling back at the sensation of his lips on your neck. It’s that spot under your right ear that always gets you weak in the knees  and you’re sure if someone were to pinch you there you’d fall right out. It’s your achilles’ heel.

He tells you you talk too much but you’re more irritated at the fact that he’s stopped working at that place on your neck to insult you. You have to physically restrain yourself from telling him to shut the fuck up but it’s made easier by him finally sliding down those grey sweatpants of his.

Grey sweatpants are a mess for multiple reasons and the number one being you can always tell when a guy isn’t wearing underwear in them. You could tell a while ago, but you didn’t want to be caught dead staring and it’s much more exciting to be surprised. And surprised you are at him, you can feel him hot against your leg as he leans over you. 

You’re kind of scared, to be honest, because your ex was on a smaller than average side of the scale and Erik is definitely not so you wonder briefly as he strokes himself if this will hurt like a first time. You’re just not  _ used  _ to anything, too sensitive to everything, and his trailing kisses down your neck and stomach are causing your pussy to have a complete emotional breakdown independent of your brain. 

Right before you’re prepared to get a tiny bit of relief from the painful arousal you’re feeling Erik’s face is inches from yours again, kissing you on the lips with an odd gentleness you didn’t really expect from an obvious hookup. It’s nice, and you relish in it, partly because his lips are soft as hell and partly because it’s delaying what you’re most nervous about. If anything, this will go down as the most comfortable hookup you’ll probably ever have. It’s embarrassing how often your thoughts keep jumping back to the feeling of the blanket and sheets under you. 

“Aye, lil bit,” he suddenly says, patting the side of your face with one hand. “Look at me when i’m talkin’ to you.”

You hadn’t heard a word he said, your brain was so fixated on that thread count of his sheets. This scatterbrained problem of yours is probably why you haven’t had any since your breakup. Erik sees fit to completely psychoanalyze you with one scathing criticism.

“You keep daydreamin’ cuz you ain’t used to good dick, huh.”

You honestly, truly, want to nod and shout every confirmation known to man because he’s hit the nail on the head. It’s pathetic how a boyfriend of three years managed to make you feel like a hookup while the  _ actual  _ hookup is proving more intimate than he ever was. So far, at least, but he keeps kissing you like he actually  _ wants to, _ past his shallow attraction to your body and your face. You think that maybe this is part of the package.

Like how he’s gone from placing feather light kisses on your thighs to devouring you like a man with his last meal with a tongue that didn’t reveal it’s true size until just now. You can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t do much of anything but stare wide-eyed at the ceiling light above you. He’s groaning in between your legs like this brings him pleasure, and you lean up a bit to look down at him in curiosity. 

He glances up to meet your eyes immediately, and this is probably the most scandalous scene you’ve ever found yourself in. You don’t even know him! This whole situation is so wild, you’re in complete disbelief because it’s playing out like one of those cheesy smut books in the  _ Urban Fiction  _ section of the bookstore. As Erik places a firm palm to your stomach to get you to lay back you wonder, briefly, just when did ‘Black’ become synonymous with ‘Urban.’

He presses a final kiss to your stomach before suddenly standing and walking away. You’re left confused and out of breath, with a question buzzing around your mind now that he’s away from you. There’s no time to stop the words from leaking out of your mouth now that a fuzzy haze of pleasure is covering your brain and you feel silly once they do. 

“So is it my turn or-”

Erik’s digging around in his bathroom for something, back turned to you and literally looking as stunning as a marble statue.  _ How  _ in God’s name did you end up here?

It takes him a minute to respond but he suddenly goes, “What? Oh. Nah, lil bit, I heard you in there dying off a damn toothbrush. Don’t even trip about givin’ me head.”

“Are you serious?” you ask, because when has a guy ever said that?

“Yeah i’m serious,” he says. “You think I want you throwin’ up on my dick and shit? I’m good.”

Fair enough.

He finally comes back with a condom wrapper in his hand and you could die because the thought of protection never crossed your damn mind. Your friends would be appalled, your ancestors disgusted, at the fact that you were fully prepared to let this man raw you despite knowing him for all of 24 hours. Damn, you think. It really does be like that, huh.

You watch him open the wrapper idly, appreciating the fact that he isn’t being rough with you because you don’t know if you could handle that, honestly. But you have a feeling that things aren’t going to be that slow anymore as his eyes snap up to meet yours with that predatory glare the second he tosses the empty foil packet to the side.

“Wait!” you shout, scooting a bit farther back. He only pulls you back by your legs. “I have a few rules, I’m dead serious.”

He just gives you a look but you could care less because it’s important.

“I am  _ not  _ calling you ‘daddy’ at any point, so let’s be clear on that.”

He snorts.

“And,” you continue, holding a finger up. “If you go anywhere near my asshole i’m gonna have to slide you, i’m not kidding.”

This actually makes him laugh at you again, and his smile is really pleasant; definitely a drastic difference from the way he normally carries himself. It’s nice. And it’s like he rewards you for making him laugh by leaning in to kiss you again; first on the cheek, then the nose, your neck and your lips. He comments on how good you smell, making you glad you thought to spray perfume behind your ears before coming in here. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck you say likewise, because he smells like a candle from somewhere expensive. This scenario of the two of you kissing like this would theoretically be cute but Erik has to ruin it by slamming into you without warning. He doesn’t tease you by rubbing the tip of his dick against your (admittedly, thoroughly soaked) entrance, doesn’t shout that he’s coming in for a landing, nothing. He leaves you shocked, staring at you like you’d better take it, but the jumbled mess of noise that comes out of your mouth definitely isn’t a human language. 

He groans, completely ignoring how you spoke in tongues, before opening his mouth and saying, “ _ Shit,  _ you tight as fuck.”

You only screw your eyes shut, trying to adjust to this sudden yet welcome intrusion, and thankfully Erik has the decency to let you by staying still. He only give you a brief moment to get comfortable before putting a hand under your ass to kind of half flip you over. You end up on your side, one leg hitched high over the other. This  position kind of hurts, you aren’t that flexible, but you don’t have time to dwell on it too much because you’re put into a whole different layer of pleasure punctuated by the inherent pain of your walls being stretched more than you’re used to. You figure out very quickly that Erik’s  _ i don’t give a fuck  _ attitude transfers over to his hookups because he could care less to the fact that you aren’t used to this. 

Perhaps involuntarily, you keep moving away from him but he only yanks you back down with his iron grip on your thigh. “Fuck you runnin’ for? Take this shit.”

And all you can do is feebly nod because to be honest you’ve never felt this good in your life; in a physical sense. You feel like you’re on fire, like every neuron in your brain is exploding at once and reducing you into an overstimulated mess. It feels good, but it hurts some too, but it feels  _ good  _ and on and on it spins. You keep bouncing back and forth between the sensations, all the while trying not to look Erik in the eyes because he looks absolutely mad with lust.

He catches you looking at him and grins devilishly, pounding into you even harder and you try and cover your face with your hands to hide the face you’re making in return. 

“Nah, look at me, lil bit,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”

You do as he says, trying to fix your face into one that looks less like the victims of Samara in  _ The Ring.  _

He’s gripping your upper thigh so hard you wonder if you’ll bruise when he breathes out a vicious, “This my shit? Huh? This my pussy?”

You can barely manage to gasp out a, “Yes,” before he’s moving you again. He’s got you on all fours now, and your arms are shaking like hell so you all but bury your head in the sheets under you to keep from having to support yourself. At this point, you’d give this man your entire social security number. This shit is so dangerous.

‘ _ Oh my god’  _ is coming out of your mouth like a mantra, muffled by the expensive blanket and at this point you’re surprised you’re still capable of human speech. All you can hear is the own ringing of your ears mixed with the obscene slapping noises of your bodies connecting. It kind of sounds like someone running in flip flops to you, and you hate that the thought crosses your mind because you start laughing. Luckily Erik doesn’t hear your small giggling, because he’s too busy vocally admiring your ass for the millionth time. It has to be the only reason he’s fucking you doggy style now, but you appreciate it not only for his vain compliments but for the fact that he can’t see your horrible facial expression.

Now that you’re facing the other way you’ve stopped trying to look cute and completely surrendered yourself to the fact that he’s wrecking you and you’re almost at Heaven’s gates already. You’re calling for the divine creator so much in your mind you’re sure you sound like a hidden bonus track from Kirk Franklin and the Family. 

“You so goddamn  _ fine,”  _ Erik suddenly says, his tone making it sound like a threat rather than a compliment. 

There’s a knot in the pit of your stomach, it’s been there for the past couple minutes, but you finally stop ignoring it to face the inevitable. Maybe. Truth be told you’ve  _ never  _ came without touching yourself during but you’ve been too busy trying not to pass out to even try. You have a feeling this one might actually cause you to astral project, so you see fit to warn him.

“I’m-” You start, eyes screwed shut.

“What, you ‘bout to cum?” he interupts. “Already?”

“I think so.”

“You ‘think so.’” He laughs at you again. “I got you, baby girl. Shit, i’m right behind you.”

You foolishly think that he’ll kind of, gently, ease you into your climax but if anything he goes in even harder. Now you’re basically screaming into the bed, digging your nails so hard into the mattress you’re glad they’re acrylic because they’d definitely break otherwise. The sounds of him slamming into you are downright obscene, as is the way he’s groaning and cursing behind you. Your ex  _ never  _ made a sound when the two of you were together.

He also never made you feel like you were going to pass out, having bright lights pop in your vision because he’s never actually made you cum before. You’ve always been responsible for your own but there’s something very different than your usual, self-inflicted orgasms.  _ This  _ one has your legs shaking so bad that they feel like they’re cramping at the same time. Muscles seizing and relaxing over and over again for what feels like an eternity and to make it all the more humiliating you start crying, you’ve never felt this good. 

You kind of flop forward like a ragdoll, the remnants of your orgasm still racking your body with spasms. Behind you, Erik gives your ass one final slap before chuckling like this is just  _ so  _ funny to him. It probably is, because you’re sure he’s used to women who can hang, or at least none that damn near die after they’ve finished. 

“You good?” he asks, leaning over you to move some of your braids away from your face. “Cryin’ and shit, got me thinkin’ I killed you.”

Sniffling, you finally realize that you  _ were  _ crying and the absurdity makes you start cracking up. It really is funny, and you really do feel like you’re about to sleep the best you ever have in weeks. But more importantly, you’re ready for that fat cheeseburger you’ve been fantasizing about at work.

Erik isn’t even sweating when you finally peek up at him, but his dreads have gotten all disheveled and now lay haphazardly over his forehead. The way he’s looking at you has your face heating up, like there’s tv static in your cheeks, but you really don’t have the leg strength to try and move. He gets up while you’re hiding your face in the bed again, making sure to call you goofy again from somewhere behind you.  _ This  _ is a story worth telling your friends, and you absolutely cannot wait to spill during your weekly Friday gossip and chill sessions. This time it’ll be at your apartment, and you hope to maybe make a huge seafood boil if your cheap friends decide to chip in like they’re supposed to.

You finally try and get up but you feel a hand pushing you firmly back down on your stomach. “What’re you doing?”

Rather than answer you, Erik just starts wiping your back off and you have to scoff because you were so caught up in your own little death that you failed to realize he shot all up your back. “I hope you didn’t get anything in my hair.”

He sucks his teeth at you, continuing to wipe away every trace of your sweaty (on your part) hookup. You’re just looking at him now, curious and with a moment of post-sex clarity that has a million questions running through your mind. You know it’s bad to fixate on a man solely because he didn’t treat you like shit but you can’t help it. You want to know more about him, about his house and his cool car and why he was at the barbecue the other day. You want to know why he has so many scars, and why he gets this look in his eyes sometimes like he’s withdrawn into himself with a glare that may as well be a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. 

But you’re exhausted, and last night’s lack of sleep is pulling you under by your braids. It’s bad, but you manage to yank up your sweatpants and pull your shirt back over your head before succumbing to the texture of the blanket underneath you. 

You wonder if he’ll let you keep it as payment for nearly killing you.

__  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bad at smut, lmaoooo. I'm more of a 'sex scene' type person, the nuance I know.


	5. iced boba milk tea

 

By the time Friday rolls around, you feel like absolute shit. You ended up doing overtime every day this week after Monday, because rent is due soon and you’d like to have a little extra to treat yourself next check. Usually when this stuff happens and you get in this kind of mood you drag your girls with you to the mall to drop half a check on overpriced underwear. Plus a few drop ins to Cafe 85c; there’s a location within walking distance to your place.

You stand in your kitchen, air conditioning on full blast because of the pots of steaming seafood on your stove that you hope won’t melt the paint. It’s your turn to cook, and you feel a little guilty because you _really_ didn’t want to accept Erik’s money when he offered it to you earlier in the week. You only idly mentioned your weekend plans as he took you to your parent’s house, and he slipped you a few hundred dollar bills as you were getting out of the car.

All your life your parents made you feel weird about accepting money from people, and in your adult life your friends did the same when it came to guys. But at the same time, when have you ever been in a position like this? You eased each other’s sexual frustrations and then he gave you money. What does that mean?

You groan, trying your best to mix the seafood sauce according to the youtube video in front of you, because there’s too much to think about and it’s stressing you out.

Once the sauce is mixed you cover it with foil before whirling around to check on the potatoes steaming in the pot next to the corn on the back burners. It’s a _lot_ of food, you have to admit. You were compelled to spend most if not all of Erik’s gifted money on seafood down at the fish market because you’d feel weird otherwise having the cash just in your pocket. You gave him your number but he didn’t give you his, so your nice gesture of wanting to invite him over for some doesn’t matter.

It’s probably weird, you think, to invite your hookup over for dinner but after all this _is_ his money that paid for the snow crab legs, shrimp and the lobster tails.

There’s a knock on the door just as you finish tossing parsley over everything and you hurry over to it to get a welcome release from your thoughts. Sydney comes in first, waggling a paper bag with Hennesey inside, while Kayla has paper plates. You laugh, because it’s obvious which one of your friends is cheap, but you hug them both anyway.

You don’t exactly know how Hennesey is going to react with a seafood boil, though.

Your friends waste no time, berating you with requests for details all the while not helping you bring the food over to the coffee table. You ignore them, getting the newspaper all ready to keep juices off your light grey carpet. The plates are all laid out, the reality tv shows are ready to start, and you’re starving, but the first bite of shrimp gets cut off quick.

“Well,” Kayla says, smacking you with a plastic fork. “What the hell happened?!”

“Yeah!” Sydney goes, licking her fingers already. “ _Shit_ this sauce is good.”

With a sigh, you rub at your eyes, trying to find the words to actually make the situation seem more interesting past ‘we fucked.’

The both of them are smacking loudly on the food, staring at you expectantly so you have no choice but to start talking. “He took me back to his place-”

“And?!” says Kayla.

“He lives in this sweet ass house, but it’s like it’s so empty. I feel like he’s barely in it. And it’s _really_ cold-”

Kayla rolls her eyes as you pause to dip a lobster tail in the homemade sauce you poured your blood, sweat, and tears into. “I just went to bed, honestly. Then I woke up to get ready for work, he said he’d take me but he was knocked out so I just took an Uber. He picked me up, we got back to his place, I called you Kayla and then…”

You trail off, eyeing the both of your friends wryly and continuing your very un-ladylike chomping on the food. It _is_ good.

Both women in front of you start screaming like the idiots they are and you have to shake your head with a smile because you love their ridiculous asses. They seem legitimately happy for you, and you’re over it because he was just a hookup. Man, you know it’s been a while but for them to be acting like this just because you got some makes you wonder how you’ve been acting. Sydney decides to tell you.

“I am so glad, sis, you’ve been runnin’ around here all pitiful and tired and shit.”

“What?” you scoff, folding your arms. “I’m tired and pitiful because I hate my job.”

“And in your case you needed some dick. I see a 25 percent increase in your energy today.”

You start laughing, taking a sip of water. It’d be nice to actually feel that 25 percent increase in energy, because you’re as tired as ever after work. You think that maybe you should try and look for a new job somewhere, some place different just for a change of pace. Your parents basically beat the ins and outs of responsible spending into your head so you have something to fall back on should you not work for a couple months. You’re mentally exhausted, you just need a break.

The Town Gossips in front of you egg you on to keep speaking but you make them wait until you get a good few bites of red potato. “Okay,” you start. “I’m not gonna tell y’all everything that’s weird. I don’t know, shit, he’s as good as he looks and I cried.”

“You cried,” Kayla repeats, mouth wide open. “That nigga fucked you so hard you cried?!”

Sydney looks worried. “Was it a good cry?”

To keep them from quickly getting the straps you hold both hands out and try to keep yourself from laughing at their faces. You make it clear this was a consensual event and you crying was due more to your soul ascending straight to God and less you being in pain. But you do slip in the fact that you get serious red flag alpha male vibes from him sometimes, and you flip flop from liking the way he stares at you to wanting to hide from his gaze. They just tell you you’re overthinking.

Your friends are funny, and you really needed this girl talk session because by the end of the night you’re in a good mood. You feel happy and sleepy (although that may be from the Hennessey), and you’re surprised when they help you put all the leftovers away and clean up. Usually they’re gone by the time 10 rolls around.

The apartment is clean and free of the smell of the ocean by the time Sydney and Kayla are walking to the door, but the door itself opens before you get a chance to. The three of you stand there like dumbasses and if it was some predator and not Erik all of you would be pretty corpses on the floor. “Damn, shorty, you just leave your door unlocked and shit?”

“No,” you say, getting over the surprise of seeing him in your doorway. “Well I forgot to lock it this time-what are you doing here?”

He stares down at you before holding up a small red leather wallet. “Forgot your wallet in my crib, goofy ass.”

“Why don’t you call me by my name at some point?” you ask, folding your arms. You can’t lie, you love the nicknames, love the way he looks at you when he calls you one but it’d be nice to hear your name from those lips more than one time.

Erik only raises both eyebrows at you before looking past you at Sydney and Kayla. They’ve gone uncharacteristically silent, waving their hellos and shooting you a look as they pass him on their way out. It’s not until they’ve hit the parking lot do you hear Kayla’s, “Bye, bitch!!”

You shake your head before turning your attention back to Erik, towering over you in your doorway. It’s pretty cool outside, so you turn around to switch off the A/C before gesturing inside. “Wanna come in?”

He does, looking around at your decorations and your plants and your photos scattered around your living room. He makes rather rude comments about your choice of decor, and he shakes his head at your _signed_ mini-poster of Captain America.Your one room apartment isn’t very large, but it’s more than enough for you to eat and sleep in. Whenever you don’t have to immediately do either you’re outside looking for something to do. The weekends are your favorite.

After a few minutes of scoping out your place Erik crosses the room to you to plant a huge kiss on you, and you’re surprised. But you don’t melt into it this time, you pull away with a nervous laugh. “I just got finished eating seafood, don’t kiss me.”

“Oh really?” he goes, fake surprised. “Cuz all I taste is Hennessy.”

You lament that you and your friends drank it all, and Erik playfully berates you for letting them drive. Truthfully, you’d drank the most, and Sydney the least. It helps that the bottle was small.

It’s weird that he kissed you, you think, so you try and change the subject by bringing it around to food. You absolutely cannot catch any smidgen of feelings for anyone right now, and Erik’s making it very difficult by laying these kisses on you like you’re bae or something.

“I made hella food tonight, do you want any?”

“You made ‘hella’, huh.”

“Shut up!”

“Lemme get it to-go, baby, I got shit to do.”

He’s chuckling at you afterwards, and you’re left to be embarrassed as you dig around your kitchen for that pack of styrofoam containers. Having the kind of friends that you do, you’re often sending your leftovers home with their lazy asses. All this time and you still don’t know if they take your food because you can cook, or because they just don’t feel like doing it themselves.

Erik is unsurprisingly staring you down as you start making the plate, and you glance up at him a few times, uneasy with the silence. It’s a little oppressive, and you wonder why he’s still intimidating you with that charged aura of his. Who is he, really?

“Can I ask you something?” You go, closing the container.

He doesn’t respond, but you suppose the lift of his eyebrows is a silent ‘continue, but be careful.’

“Um.” Now he’s got you nervous, the question dies on your lips and you stand there in silence. “Nevermind.”

And so does he, until he apparently gets fed up with how slow moving you are and snaps at you to hurry up. Of course, how could you forget he has ‘shit to do’. The ever elusive ‘shit’ that people say whenever they don’t want you to know what they’re doing. But he doesn’t owe you anything, not an explanation not a damn thing honestly, so you put away your questions for later. “Here.”

He takes the food from you, without saying thanks, and takes his ass straight to the door.

“Aight, lil bit. Lock this door.”

You roll your eyes at his back, closing the door a little too hard the second he passes through it. It’s silent, and you wonder if he’s just staring at you through the damn door for slamming it, and the thought has you scurrying away to your bedroom. You _know_ that look, you felt that shit. It’s the same energy you used to get from your mom whenever you accidentally slammed a door in her house. That’s _chaotic_ energy.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh my god, y’all, how did you let me fuck a fuckboy?!”

It’s early afternoon and you’re currently stationed in Cafe 85c with your girls, trying to decide what you want to stuff your starving ass with before you get kicked out for taking up table space. It’s really hot out today, about high 80s and sunny, and you’re dressed in the least amount of clothes possible. Bandeau and a pair of high waisted Guess shorts from the 90s, thrifted. Your only hope is that your deodorant doesn’t fail you.

Kayla shrugs, smiling at you with an all-knowing look on her face. “Because you needed dick, that’s why.”

You call them traitors and put your head in your hands, because after sleeping on it you note that Erik displays all the irritating Alpha Male tendencies of some typical fine-ass fuckboy that’s never been told no by a woman before. He’s just _so_ smooth, and you fell for it against your better judgment. He hasn’t text you or called you yet, and you wonder if it’s because you’d have his number if he did.

“And you know the _worst_ part?” You ask, staring across the table at your friends. “I’ve been waiting on him to call me all week, just  for sex. Isn’t that bad? I feel like he’s doing this shit on purpose like he’s gonna just _make_ me come beggin’ to him like some thirsty ass-”

Sydney cuts you off with a hand in your face. You just try and bite her fingers for it.

“Bitch, please go order some food. I’ll pay for it, just go!”

You huff and ignore her debit card sitting on the wooden table top, because you still have over 100 dollars of Erik’s money in your (now, returned) wallet. Sydney and Kayla both discuss among themselves about the menu behind you in line, but you already know what you’re about to inhale.

The cashier greets you with a smile. “How can I help you?”

“Okay,” you start, ready to be judged. “I want a Cheese Dog pastry, a Bacon and Cheese pastry, and an Iced Boba milk tea. Those are for here, and I want a-”

Behind you, Sydney clears her throat loudly. You really can’t stand a hater.

“Nevermind,” you correct yourself. “I’m good. I’ll just come back later.”

You make sure to scoff the last word in Sydney’s face before taking out your wallet. Two crisp 100s are poking out but you feel weird paying for your food with one. It’s all the cash you have, though, so you sheepishly step aside to let your friends add their stuff to your order. The both of them add another 20 bucks to your order, making it a more manageable price to break 100 with.

On your way back to the table you actually see Malcolm from the neighborhood strolling past the window with those huge headphones of his on. He’s gone by the time you set your stuff down but you hurry on out of the cafe to chase him down.

“Hey! Malcolm!”

He doesn’t hear you, his dumb ass music is bumping too loud and he’s lucky you aren’t a serial killer because he wouldn’t hear you coming. To keep from running in this heat you bend down to grab a decorative rock off the nearby flower plot and toss it at him. It connects with his head with a _smack_ and you cover your mouth to keep from laughing at the way he flinches like he got shot at.

He turns around to glare at you. “Damn, _____, the hell you throwin’ rocks for?”

“I’m sorry, but boy don’t walk around with your music up that loud!”

He huffs and raises his eyebrows at you, foot tapping basically telling you to hurry the hell up and you lean against the brick wall behind you with a sigh. You have questions about Erik, and the only person outside of the man himself that can probably answer you is standing right in front of you.

“Where do you know Erik from?” you ask, getting straight to the point.

Malcolm shrugs. “My dad started that program partnership thing at that Wakandan Outreach Center. He comes by sometimes I guess. Half the people in that damn place are scared of him, though.”

Wakandan. You hum, because you hardly ever watch the news solely for your weak constitution but you do remember the _outrageous_ revelation Wakanda made about itsself a few months ago. You couldn’t avoid it, it was everywhere. A technological marvel of a nation, completely untouched by colonization and the outside world for centuries. You were proud. Home of the Black Panther. It’s like a lightbulb comes on in your head, and slowly all the pieces of the puzzle start forming and you feel a little faint. And how could you forget? Hearing of the cousin of the King being pardoned for his crimes against the crown, like some shit straight out of Game of Thrones. You remember that news report, but they didn’t show his face nor did they call him ‘Erik.’ But who else could they have been talking about? God, did you fuck Killmonger?

Of course not, right?

Your stomach growls, bringing you back down to reality. Malcolm says his goodbyes and you turn to get back to your food. Luckily your iced boba hasn’t melted much once you get back inside, but you do see a suspicious bite mark in your Cheese Dog Pastry. Both Sydney and Kayla look equally guilty but you’re too hungry to care.

Your cellphone buzzes after your second bite.

 

_What you doing - Unknown Number_

 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. You send a quick ‘nothing’ back because you plan on chilling at home for a couple hours before going back out with your girls. Saturday is a shopping day, and the three of you can spend a lot of time in the mall. To you, the weekends are the best because you just like to people watch while you shop, maybe get a few glances from one of the roaming packs of guys hanging around.

Another buzz.

 

_Look i need you to do somethin for me.  - Unknown Number._

 

_Wow so you one of those niggas that only come around to ask for something. I’m sure you got a whole bunch of chicks you can be asking for favors instead of me. - You_

 

You smile to yourself, because you know he’s probably used that line on one of his chicks before, but it serves him right because of the rude way he delivered your wallet last night. Whatever he’s asking can’t be that important, or legal, so you keep on chatting and eating. The savory pastries in this place are amazing and you think that your overindulgence of them are half the reason you have a bit of a butt on you. That and the ten squats you do every other month.

Erik sends you another text but you let it sit there until you’ve finished eating. It’s not until you and your girls are heading out of the cafe and back toward Kayla’s car do you pull your phone out to see.

 

_You got a smart ass mouth, lil bit. You still gon be talkin all that shit when i’m tearin that ass up? - Unknown Number_

 

You just mouth, ‘woooow’ to yourself in the backseat, and your insides have the audacity to clench as you read his text over and over. It goes unanswered because your mind is pulling a straight blank and it’s like your ears are ringing on the ride back to your apartment complex. There’s an expensive car parked next to yours in the lot, a familiar one, and your heart starts pumping hard as hell as you say goodbye to your friends. They don’t know whose car it is, so they’re too busy trying to figure out how the three of you are going to get to the mall later to give it more than a second thought.

“We’ll be back here at 2,” Kayla finally says. “We can Uber or something.”

“Okay,” you say, hardly paying them any attention. You all but run up the shaky staircase, vibrating with each step, tripping and landing on that skinned knee from the barbecue. Your iced boba refill goes everywhere, spilling milk tea and tapioca pearls all over the ground and over the edge to the bushes below. 3.25,wasted, and you want to cry. He's giving you that damn money back.

You’re both expecting and not expecting that fool of a man to be in your apartment, but you really don’t expect him to be sitting slouched on your couch with his legs wide open like he lives here. “Wassup.”

You fold your arms, closing and locking the door behind you before tossing your purse on the coffee table. Your voice is stern, direct.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“That lil bitch ass lock you got on there can’t keep nobody out,” he scoffs, as if it’s obvious why he broke into your damn apartment.

You’re even more on guard after making the connection earlier, about how this man in front of you may or may not be the ‘cousin’ you half heard about  on that news report. The one with probably the most emo yet threatening nickname you’ve ever heard. You shake the thought away; they had to have been talking about a different cousin of the King. He can’t _possibly_ have just one, right? That reporter didn’t say his name once. They didn’t say ‘Erik.’

But he’s Wakandan at the very least, and that’s interesting, but you’re too busy trying not to squirm under his gaze on you. He looks like he’s sitting on his own throne, staring at you like _you’ve_ made an intrusion and you really want to start screaming. _He broke into your house._

After a few seconds he speaks again, gesturing to the door. “I took care of that. Can’t nobody get in this shit now except for me.”

“And me,” you interject, waving your key. “Because this is my apartment. Not yours. How would you act if I just broke into your house today?”

He shrugs, face holding an expression that says you’re being silly. “Nah, you couldn’t do that if you tried, lil bit.”

“But what if I could.”

Another shrug. “Then you would’ve seen me kickin’ some chick out from last night.”

You roll your eyes extra hard and say, “I hope she deserved to be kicked out, or are you just an asshole?”

“I’m a lot of things, Princess.”

Princess! That’s a new one, but you have to say it isn’t your favorite. He still hasn’t called you by your name more than once, and  you wonder if he ever will. You stare at him, hands idly messing with one of your braids, just like he does you. He stares right back for a minute, before finally getting up and going to move toward you. That’s when you turn away and go toward the kitchen, trying to ignore him the best you can.

That is, until he spins you around with one hand gripping your upper arm.

“You too fine to be this damn mean,” he says, letting you go once you try and jerk your arm away a few times. “I’m out here fixin’ yo wack ass locks so _you_ don’t get attacked and you get mad?”

“I’m not mean. I’m real nice. That’s why I haven’t called the cops yet on you for breaking in.”

He shakes his head, grinning at you and you see those damn grills again. “You know why you ain’t do all that.”

You can’t even think of a retort because he’s already looking you up and down in your outfit, or rather lack thereof. Erik touches your choker, the amethyst hanging from it, and your silver necklaces. There’s a cross, a knife, and a dainty chain with your name on it that your mom got you for your 21st. He appears to be so busy fingering each individual chain that hangs around your neck that you fully don’t expect him to just yank down your bandeau and expose your breasts to your too-high air conditioning. “Erik!”

“You shoulda wore a shirt then; goddamn, you fine, girl.”

That part of you that was so invalidated by your ex finds vain satisfaction in the way he compliments your body, and you want him to do it again despite the fact that you need to be irritated with him. You glance over at your door lock, seeing that it doesn’t look much different save for the faint sheen implying the metal is different. Sure, maybe you are a little scatterbrained when it comes to looking after yourself but you’ve survived this long haven’t you? If anything, your lease is up in a couple months and you want to find some place that will allow you to get Zeus. Maybe a new pit so he can have a little sibling.

It’s hard to ignore his calloused hands rubbing slow circles on your chest but you manage to do so long enough to reach back and remove your jewelry. They’ll go back on in a couple hours. You’re done resisting for now, you decide to play along to get what you want out of it.

That’s all the two of you are in each other’s presence for. You’re bad at relationships and he’s not the type for them anyway, a match made in hookup heaven.

He pulls your bandeau over your head and tosses it on the kitchen bar, but he stops you as you turn toward the hallway. You watch him slowly sit back on your couch, a lovely find from Ikea, and look at you expectantly.

“My room’s this way,” you say, pointing. How are you topless and he’s still fully clothed?

“Nah, lil bit, i’m tryna see yo pretty ass today.”

Rolling your eyes again you slowly approach him, getting this awkward squat thing going on as you hesitantly kneel over him. You don’t like this position, you have to look cute you have to be control, you have to do entirely too much when you’d rather lay back and let him blow your back out. Whomst the hell invented this position?

Before he can latch onto you with those lips of his you start trying to pull his flannel off, because you’ll be damned if he fucks you with all his clothes on. In fact, you say this to him verbatim and he slides his white tee off with a chuckle at your expense. _Fuck,_ is his physique impressive, and it’s like some invisibile thot force gets you feeling his chest again. You note that his breathing changes the second you bring your acrylics into it, and when you look at him his eyes are all glazed over like a damn cat.  You feel warm again, you like the way he’s looking at you but you also don’t even know if he’s all there. Hell, you completely dissociated when he ate you out the other day you’re sure you looked vacant too.

Erik starts doing the same, lightly scratching your sides and it sends a full wave of goosebumps up your body and you shiver. A bit embarrassed, you put your face in his neck. This really isn’t your go-to sex position. You feel too exposed.

“You gettin’ shy?” he asks, lifting you up to slide your shorts off. “You was talkin’ all that shit earlier, though.”

“Ugh,” you go. “ _Please.”_

You’re aching again, completely soaked already, and you’d really appreciate it if he’d shut up for once and _hurry up._ You hope that grinding on him will help speed this up, after all you got shit to waste money on, and luckily his head falls back with a groan. Those jeans can’t be comfortable right now.

In fact, you know he’s not because he suddenly pushes you to the side to unzip himself, pulling down just enough to get some relief. To be frank, his dick looks daunting the way he just has it sticking straight up, and you sit there staring at it like a freak until he gets impatient and moves you himself.

Erik doesn’t even bother taking your panties off, just pushes them to the side as he sets you down on him. Again, you’re unprepared, and you screw your eyes shut and scream at the jarring change.Your voice is strained and there are tears in your eyes when you breath, “You can’t keep doing that shit! It hurts, you impatient ass-”

“I got shit to do today. I ain’t got time for all that,” he says, hands firmly gripping your hips. You may as well be a massive fleshlight by the way he’s moving you up and down on him. Every time you try and move yourself it upsets his rhythm and he sucks his teeth at you before correcting it.

Despite the fact that you wanted to do nothing, you start getting fed up that he’s not letting you do anything.  It makes you feel cheap, cheaper than usual anyway.

“Here,” you say, wrenching his hands away from your hips and moving them to your chest. “That’s not how I like it. That shit hurts.”

And you _correct_ his previous motions, moving in a circular back and forth motion rather than the rough up and down he had going on. It was like, too deep, and kept hitting a spot that made you wince rather than sigh happily. Previous experience be damned, you know what you like and how and you would not be silent.

“Damn,” he says, watching you move. “Fuck what I said, then.”

“Yeah, fuck what you said,” you repeat, laughing. “Roughneck ass nigga. You can’t just do the same shit in this position like in the other ones. Puncturing my organs and shit.”

He laughs at you, but it lasts only a second before he fixes those eyes on you again. You feel exposed under his gaze, even moreso, so you look down to hide your face behind your long braids.

“I think I might keep you around, lil bit.”

God, you really hope he isn’t Killmonger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was hungry when i wrote this. he probably not gonna give her back that 3.25 either


	6. bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short one!!

_ I think I might keep you around, lil bit. _

Erik’s words to you are still playing in your mind long after he decided to flip you over and wreck you, and long after he disappeared again before you could ask what favor he wanted to ask. You don’t know what to do with the information, can’t rationalize it as being anything more than him willing to focus his libido on you specifically. An extended, long term booty call.

You’ve been waiting outside your apartment for your friends, leaning against the railing with more of his money stuck in your purse. When you told him you didn’t have all day because of your plans, he stuck more bills in your hand while making you promise you’d buy something ‘sexy’ to put on for him. Jokes on him, you planned on frivolously spending cash on underwear anyway. 

He won’t listen when you refuse his money, so you start mentally allocating where it’s going to go. Gas, bills, rent, savings. Food. You definitely need to go grocery shopping, you note to yourself, that kitchen of yours is barren after the seafood boil you made. 

Sydney and Kayla roll up just as you wonder what you could possibly eat during the week that won’t take more than an hour to cook, and you lock your apartment door behind you with a sigh. Erik lowkey has you limping, or at the very least walking a little funny with the dull ache between your legs, but nothing compares to how wrecked you were the morning after he fucked you the first time. You felt aches and pains in your joints you’ve never felt before, solely from the odd position he kept you in, and it made you realize you need to get your ass in the gym solely for the stretching part.

You honestly hate your eagle-eyed friends, because once you slide in the backseat, Kayla turns around to face you. “Dick appointment?”

“Shut up,” you say. “I thought we were catching an Uber?”

“I thought we were too,” Kayla says, dropping the subject. “But if we buy a lot of shit I don’t wanna have it in someone else’s car.” 

They keep talking but your mind quickly begins drifting back to earlier. It’s a damn shame you think, to be missing the feeling of Erik’s lips on you only an hour after feeling them last. You feel addicted already, like somebody slipped you a taste of some illegal drug and now you can’t quit it. You can’t get used to this, you’re still early enough in to put a stop to it.

That feeling alone has you whipping out your cellphone and sending a quick, impulsive text to that unsaved number of his. 

 

_ I don’t wanna get used to this. I don’t think you should either. _

 

Now you’re anxious, because your Rational and Horny sides of the brain are fighting again. One side tells you that latching on to a man like this solely because he’s been giving you vain satisfaction is foolish and only asking for pain, while the other side tells you that you’re young and shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

You don’t expect your cell to buzz so soon.

 

_ Bet. - Unknown Number _

 

Frowning, you wonder what the hell that means. Does he agree with the first part of the message or the last? You never could stand ‘bet’ ass niggas, solely because you always felt slightly threatened and uneasy whenever they’d say it during an argument or some otherwise touchy conversation. This shit has you sweating now, but you push it to the back of your mind because you’ll be damned if this messes up your Girls Day Out. 

 

It does, though, and you end up not spending a dime of his money the entire day. You do, however, buy some cheaply made piece of shit lingerie thing from Victoria’s Secret and you keep glaring at the receipt, crushed up in your palm. It’s black, lacy with gold flecks in the fabric, and you may be able to get  _ one  _ wear out of it before it disintegrates. 

Your girls gave you knowing looks as you bought it, but you told them you got it for yourself and yourself only. Hell, maybe you’ll wear it around your apartment tonight out of spite. Take a nice hot bath with one of the bath bombs you bought at Lush today, light some candles, get a little music going it’ll be nice. Thing One and Thing Two managed to convince you to go with them into some sex shop called  _ Red Lipstick  _ and all but forced you to buy some Japanese-brand vibrator that looks like a back massager as some sort of compromise to your situation. Sure, you said you don’t want to rely on this random man to make you feel good, but their solution is currently sitting in a red bag on your bedroom floor. 

You, however, have been staring at your tv for the past half hour, trying to keep yourself from caving and texting Erik. You want to, you want to so bad, but instead you use the time to pull out your laptop and do some searching. The mystery of this man is killing you, and who he is exactly has been gnawing at you for the past week. 

The first google search is kind of a clusterfuck, there’s too many overly opinionated blog posts from irrelevant white journalists on their feelings about Wakanda.  _ This nation poses a threat because of their tech, this nation is selfish for not sharing their weapons,  _ blah, blah, blah. Spoken like true americans, most of the shit you see on the first page boils down to whining about a nation in Africa having advanced weaponry. Typical. 

You decide to try his name, but he only gave you ‘Erik’ when you asked. Not his last. Finally, despite your anxieties, you type ‘Killmonger’ into the search bar and nothing you read makes a bit of sense to you. MIT grad. Ex-military. Tons of confirmed kills. Erik Stevens.

Biting your lip, you aren’t sure how you feel about the info presented to you. You’ve never been a fan of the exploitative Military Complex, nor how often it’s used to terrorize and police other nations, but you just want to know about how many bodies this dude caught. Were they military sanctioned kills or not? Which one is worse? You can’t tell.  

Out of all the girls in all the cities in all the world, he had to put those eyes on you.  _ Why  _ you? He thinks you’re pretty, he likes your body and your attitude but you wish he didn’t. Because if he didn’t you wouldn’t currently be having a mental breakdown over the fact that yes, your horny ass did indeed fuck Killmonger.

“Lord have mercy,” you sigh into your hands. You’re  _ definitely  _ going to get your relaxation on tonight. 

You ignore your grumbling stomach and go to run some bathwater, making sure to pull out all the candles you can on the way. During your search for your lighter you pass the patio door, blinds still open from earlier, and as you slide them closed you catch a glimpse of the neon  _ Flowers  _ sign across the street. Its neon pink is all you can see of the building because the streetlight blew out. It gives you an idea of which bath bomb to use. Truthfully, you’ve never used one before, but the overly peppy employee assured you they were made from organic ingredients and wouldn’t irritate your more intimate parts. Indecisiveness got you to get their best seller, some pink and purple thing called Sex Bomb, and as you watch it fizzle in your hot water you smile at the scent. This shit could make you fall asleep in the water.

And it nearly does, the only thing jolting you awake being the telltale sound of your front door closing too hard. You want to be scared, but you know it’s probably Erik, but that still has you a little uneasy. He hasn’t choked you out or stabbed you yet, so you can’t automatically assume he’s a sociopath with no empathy just yet, right?

You decide to ignore the deafening silence for now, turning up your lo-fi hip hop playlist and sinking further into the hot water. The apartment complex installed new appliances and tubs last year, tacking on a whopping 50 dollars to your rent, but the only good thing so far seems to be the addition of the tub function that keeps your water from getting cold. 

With your eyes closed and your chest warm from cheap champagne, you try and ignore the heaviness in the air. There’s a presence standing nearby, and a part of you is afraid to look less it really is some weirdo ready to put a bullet right between your eyes.

When you finally do, you sigh. “Can you stop breaking into my house?”

Erik is just staring at you from the doorway, and it’s like he comes to some conclusion about you that has him snorting and turning to leave. You follow haplessly, pulling the drain switch and wrapping a towel around your body as you do so. There’s pink bathwater dripping all over the place when you find him in your bedroom, and you listen with a scowl as he criticizes your lackluster jewelry collection. A few necklaces and a pair of cheap, beauty supply store hoops hang from the stand on your desk next to your equally cheap body sprays. You never were one for spending money on glass bottles of designer perfume.

He suddenly turns toward you and you take a step back without thinking, leading him  to smirk at you and continue scoping out your bedroom. “You scared of me or somethin’?”

You shake your head. 

“So what you actin’ like that for.”

“Acting like what?” you ask, throwing your hands up in exasperation. 

He ignores your question completely before taking a rough seat at the foot of your bed, legs sprawled open as usual. “You was lookin’ me up, huh.”

You raise an eyebrow at his annoying, smug expression before realizing you left your laptop in the living room. Of course his nosy ass had to see what was on the screen before coming back here. You feel embarrassed despite the fact that you have no cause to, but Erik has a way of looking at you in a way that totally makes you feel like you’re in trouble. It’s all in the tilt of his head, the intensity of his eyes.

“C’mere,” he suddenly says, beckoning you forward with one hand. You hate that you don’t even hesitate, hate even more that you melt right into his kiss because you’ve missed it already. You’re foolish, and addicted, just that quick.

So you try and pull away, feebly protesting that you don’t think you should be doing this anymore, but he only shuts you up with more kisses along your jaw. “I’m serious.”

“Serious about what?” he asks, voice irritated as he looks at you. “You need to learn how to let shit happen. Quit questioning every damn thing.”

He’s right, but you don’t think it quite applies to this situation. Your google search made everything super complicated, and single handedly ruined what was supposed to be you getting lucky and having a fling with some fine ass rich dude with a killer body. That’s a literal observation, you suppose.

“But,” you start, just as his hands are sliding under your velcro-fastened towel. “You’re ‘Killm-”

“I know who the fuck I am.”

“But-”

“Don’t trip,” he says, waving his hand in front of your face. “That shit’s in the past, anyways.”

You don’t believe that for a second.

His nonchalance is really beginning to aggravate and frustrate you, and the worst part is that it’s making you feel silly. But now that you know for a definite that the man pardoned by the Wakandan crown for trying to destroy and take over their government and damn near starting a massive race war is currently making you see stars, everything seems fucked up. He’s clearly not in jail, clearly things seem relatively fine since he was pardoned, but there has to be more to this story than you’re getting.  _ Why  _ would he be essentially forgiven for doing what he did? It’s none of your business, right? He’s just here for dick appointments. Satisfaction of mutual lust.

“Okay,” you sigh, looking at him. “Nevermind. Forget it.”

You make a rash decision to not ask him any more damn questions, at least any more about this whole ‘Killmonger’ business, but you must not fix your face good enough for him. He pats the side of your face before glancing behind you at something. Suddenly he’s up and over to your pink and black Victoria’s Secret bag, picking out the tissue paper for what’s underneath.

He gives you a look as he holds up the lingerie. “Oh you got me fucked up, lil bit. Go put this shit on.” 

And he tosses it at you, literally nothing but a few pieces of fabric and  some scratchy lace, pointing to the bathroom with one finger. 

“Wait,” you go, stopping at the door frame. “You never told me what you wanted to ask me for.”

“Oh,” he says, flipping on your tv. “I need you to watch my cousin tomorrow she gettin’ on my damn nerves.”


	7. crybaby

It’s dark in your bedroom, but somehow you know it’s morning by the irritating sounds of those damn mourning doves that like to sit on your windowsill. They just love singing their sad songs at 7 in the morning despite the fact that you’ve already threatened to let Zeus on them if they didn’t beat it. That dog loathes birds and you have the traumatizing high school memories to prove it.

You stretch, your bedsheets bunched around your waist, before rolling over to the biggest shock of your life. So far, at least.

Erik has his back turned to you, but you know he’s awake by the stream of quiet stream of words coming out of his mouth. It’s a language you don’t understand, nor one you’ve heard before, and for a second you wonder if he’s talking to himself or in his sleep. The fact that he's in your bed, is still more surprising than the fact that he's bilingual, and  you peer over him to see if he's  _really_ there but he reaches back to smack you on the thigh for being nosy.

You make sure to call him a ‘bitch’ under your breath before wrapping your comfortable sheets around you. It’s freezing in your apartment. Sunday mornings mean sleeping in and running errands, but apparently Erik wants you to babysit his cousin today. He won’t tell you how old she is, and hasn’t even told you her name, he was so concerned with the way you looked in that lingerie. He even whipped his cell phone out and took several pictures of you for himself. Lewd ass pictures, terrible ass pictures that would just kill you were they ever to get out. He called himself ‘teaching’ you how to give him head without choking to death and when you looked up, his phone was in your face. You won’t lie, though, the picture was lowkey sexy from an objective viewpoint. You just don’t want to see it again out of sheer embarrassment. 

He also ripped the shit out of the outfit trying to get it off you. 60 dollars, done.

Erik ends his phone call with a bitter exclamation in whatever language he’s speaking before tossing his phone onto your nightstand. You feel his hands on you next, his lips on your neck and you wonder why his sex drive is so high. You can’t keep up.

“Erik,” you say, giggling. “I can’t. I swear I can’t right now.”

He snorts, leaning up and away from you. The bed dips as he gets out of it, and you hear the jingling of keys in his jeans pocket as he pulls them on. “That’s a damn shame.”

“What is?” you ask, leaning up with the sheets wrapped around your bare chest. 

“That yo weak ass can’t handle this dick.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” you say, squinting. “Anyways, I don’t really feel like babysitting some bad ass little kid today. Why can’t you just watch her?”

He pulls his shirt on before grabbing his phone off the nightstand. You’re about to repeat yourself when he suddenly says, “Nah, she ain’t a little kid. She just keep buggin’ me to take her everywhere and i’m not tryin’ to be at Disneyland and shit.”

You hum, watching him move toward the hallway. 

“I’ll be back,” he calls, voice growing fainter as he nears the door. But you aren’t done with him yet, he owes you for that lingerie, regardless of the fact you already have more than enough of his money in your wallet to cover it. It’s the principle.

You chase after him, wrapped entirely in a bedsheet, and you run into him on his way out the door. “Wait.”

He just stares at you.

“See this?” you ask, holding up your ruined bodysuit. “You ripped my shit last night.”

“How much you want for it, ma?” he asks you, leaning against the doorframe. You don’t want his money, you just wanted to tell him, and you shrug with a sly smile on your face.

“I don’t want nothing,” you say, backing up. He follows you, predatory look in his eyes. Maybe you should’ve just let him leave. Morning kisses only work in the movies, and you’re not so bold as to assume you don’t have morning breath. Same for him. Instead, though, he leans in to kiss you slightly to the right of your mouth and that makes you start laughing. Apparently he’s on the same page. 

As he’s driving away in his dope car, you frown and think that he definitely kisses you too much. He does it too gently, too familiar, and that makes you huff in frustration as you go about your morning activities. The whole time though you’re thinking of him and his hands on you last night, how it was so much better than the first time. You don’t know if it was because you were in  _ your  _ bed or what, but all you know is he was definitely right in his text earlier. You couldn’t say shit the way he was putting it on you, not a damn word. He was  _ swimming  _ in you and you sobbed at the feeling. He called you goofy again and kissed away your tears, but not before asking you, making you tell him who your pussy belongs to. Men are annoying.

You were thinking that maybe he wore himself out, since he slept over, but the more you think it’s probably because he wanted morning sex. Too bad you can’t really hang.

You try and find a less revealing outfit to wear today; a pair of boyfriend jeans and a tank top with literally all the jewelry you own. According to Erik it’s pitiful, but you ignore his rude ass comments as you pull on your black chucks. He really has a lot of nerve, you think, especially to be in your thoughts this much despite only knowing him a week.

By the time you’ve finished your makeup an hour has passed. You’re really tired, exhausted, and you kind of secretly hope this cousin of his doesn’t  _ really  _ want to go to Disneyland. That place is in Anaheim. Shit. 

Your cell vibrates on the coffee table. 

“Hello?” you answer, fixing your hair in the reflection of the tv. 

“Whatchu mean ‘hello,’ get yo slow ass out here.”

And he hangs up, that asshole, forcing you to grab your stuff with a whole attitude. You grab his left behind flannel shirt and slide it on to combat the morning breeze, thinking nothing of it until you get down to his car. He’s blocking two of your neighbors’ parking spots. 

You hardly get to look at the passengers in Erik’s car before he’s out of it and pushing you toward the building’s stairwell. You appreciate the fact that he’s wearing glasses, whether or not they’re actual prescriptions is another story. He’s looking you up and down, smirking.

“What?”

“You wearin’ my shit now?” he asks, still giving you that shit-eating grin. “It was that good last night, huh.”

You roll your eyes and start taking off his stupid shirt but he stops you, laughing. 

“Nah, you good,” he says. “Listen, I don’t care where y’all go just go somewhere.”

“For how long,” you ask, already tired. 

“Till I call you, lil bit, now go.”

Then he leans down to kiss you, pulling away afterward and wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. After he looks down at it he raises his eyebrows at you and for a second you’re afraid your breath smells or something. 

“I need to get you with the shit that don’t come off like this, damn,” he says, showing you the light brown smear of your nude lipstick on the back of his hand. “Imma need you to stop wearin’ that cheap shit, ____”

You’re entirely too focused on the fact that he used your name in a sentence again to pay any mind to how he keeps insulting every facet of your life. It just sounds so nice in his voice, the way he says it almost like an attractive, obscene word passing through his lips. Or maybe you’re just projecting. 

You pull a makeup wipe out of your purse and remove the rest of your ‘cheap’ lipstick before putting a hand on the back of Erik’s neck and yanking him closer. You’re done trying to pretend you don’t like any of this. His kisses have a way of making you forget where you are or your own damn name, especially when he grabs the side of your face and holds it in place. In this case it’s the worst possible time, as you don’t realize you’re being observed until you hear someone clear their throat.

“Excuse me,” comes a lovely, accented voice from behind you. “Are you done devouring this young lady’s face?”

“I know you ain’t rushin’ me, nigga,” Erik says, moving you to the side enough that you stumble into the recycling bin. You end up sat in a bunch of cans and bottles and you can only hope your ass isn’t wet with beer. 

It’s kind of wild how you’ve found yourself in this situation, sitting awkwardly in a damn recycling bin while the literal King of fucking Wakanda stands a few feet away. You’re completely starstruck, utterly dumbfounded as he gives you a strong hand to pull you to your feet. You don’t let go of his hand, still staring at T’Challa dumbly as he no doubt chuckles at your expense.

“Hi,” you say, sounding a little too much like a lovestruck schoolgirl. He’s just so impressive, so handsome in person, in an entirely different way that Erik is. “I’m _____.”

“Nice to meet you,_____,” he responds, smiling. He introduces himself as well, much to your relief because you’ve been wondering how you should address him. You’re still holding his hand. God, he looks good. So regal in his black attire, so professional, so….

Erik suddenly breaks your contact with his cousin by nudging you out the way and you sneer at him; jealousy is so unbecoming. He walks ahead of the two of you in a huff, like some kid who wants to throw a tantrum, and in turn T’Challa shakes his head.

“I hate to imagine this is how you always act in front of your beautiful girlfriend-”

Erik cuts him off so quick you barely have time to register what was said.

“She ain’t my girlfriend.”

Damn. It’s true, you’re not, but he didn’t have to say it like he was going to get rabies if it didn’t come out quick enough. Still, you decide to clarify, and you turn to T’Challa with a small smile. 

“I’m not his girlfriend,” you say. “I’m just….a friend.”

“A friend, eh?” T’Challa muses, and you miss it, but something in the way he says it seems to irritate Erik even more but luckily you’re saved from an ensuing argument by the loud exasperation coming from the car in front of you. A young black girl, maybe a teenager, with her small braids pulled up into a bun and a pair of huge hoop earrings hangs out of the back window. One earbud hangs out of her ear as she gazes at the three of you boredly.

“ _ Hello,”  _ she calls, opening the car door. “How long am I supposed to just wait in this hot car for you, Cousin?”

You can’t believe you’re intimidated by a teenaged girl, but you are, not only because she’s royalty but because she’s probably smarter than Tony Stark and every other man on Earth. You may not have known who Erik was off the bat but you definitely know the black excellence standing in front of you on this Sunday morning.  Speaking of which, you think your mom probably wanted you to go to church with her and you completely forgot. 

_ Sorry, Mom, couldn’t come with you to praise the Lord today I was too busy recovering from getting dicked down by a dude nicknamed ‘Killmonger.’  _

There is absolutely no way to phrase it appropriately.

“ _ Hi...I’m Shuri _ , nice to meet you,” the girl says, speaking in a way that makes you think she probably thinks something is up with you by the way you’re just staring at her like a weirdo.

You shake her hand and introduce yourself, glancing over at Erik because you can’t believe he’s put you in this situation. He and T’Challa are back in the car now, but before starting it, Erik tosses something at you from the window. “Go get you some damn jewelry.”

Staring at the small money clip in your hands you want nothing more than to throw it back at him but your friends say if a man wants to ball out on you there’s no harm in letting him. It’s  _ his  _ money, he can waste it if he wants to. 

The car rumbles and both you and Shuri take a step back, allowing Erik to turn toward the trail leading out of the subdivision. He nods at you, then looks at Shuri before saying, “Aight, Ri.”

She only gives him a very condescending wave goodbye, saying something in that tongue you don’t understand that seems to be directed at both men sitting in the car. Truthfully you’re confused that T’Challa would be down for some random woman to keep his sister busy for a few hours, especially without any kind of bodyguards. You’d never in a million years dream of doing anything terrible to  _ anyone  _ , but you’re still shocked at the trust here.

Something tells you Shuri could probably body you in a hot second so maybe that’s the reason.

As you head to your car you give her the rundown of all interesting points around here, which aren’t many, making sure to end with the fact that probably the most varied and impressive is the mall about 30 minutes away. It’s big enough to keep most people entertained for a while, and luckily Shuri seems interested as she hasn’t been able to go shopping by herself as per her brother’s request.

You glance over at her from the driver’s seat, scoffing a bit when you say, “He doesn’t want you to go alone but he’s down with a stranger taking you?”

“That’s what I said!” she exclaims, holding both hands up. “It’s probably because N-, Erik, said you were harmless; but even that took a lot of convincing because when is he ever that trustworthy-”

She goes on and on about the absurdity of T’Challa insisting on bringing her with him during his business at the Outreach Center recently but also having the audacity to not let her step foot anywhere fun by herself. And when she _is_ here for work, he's calling her every hour to check in. You try and listen, but you keep going back to the way she hesitated and stuttered before saying Erik’s name. It’s like she was going to call him something else but stopped herself, and that has you wondering even more about the man that you’ve been seeing for the past week. 

By the time you hit the freeway Shuri’s talking about trying to take an airship down to Disneyland but her brother not letting her and you’re just so in over your head that you try to stay present without letting your mind wander too much. 

“Well,” you finally say after a while. “I’ll be down for going to Coachella with you next year if you need someone. I’ve always wanted to go.”

It’s true, mostly for the fanfare and the outfits and shit, because you and your girls love any opportunity to show out when it comes to clothes. Sitting in tents, talking and sipping drinks and praying you get a glimpse of Beyonce at some point; it seems fun. Maybe, if you even know him by then, you could make Erik come through.

But there’s no way yall would even know each other next year. By then he’ll have some other chick that’ll sign over ownership of her sex to him during the heat of the moment. You wonder if he truly thinks this shit is his or it’s just part of his spiel during. However the idea of not having him giving you that work kind of makes you upset; how in the hell are you just supposed to downgrade to regular dick once he gets sick of you? 

To keep your mind off of Erik you basically keep Shuri talking by asking her idle questions, trying to sound curious about everything but without wanting to sound like you’re grilling her for information. And you find out lots of things, the official language of Wakanda, the tech she’s been developing, the breathtaking scenery; everything. The more she talks the more you wish you could see it someday, despite knowing how impossible that shit will be. It’s funny, you remember how every black person you knew personally were joking about hitting the airport for tickets to Wakanda to get out of dumbass America and you joked that everyone would make them isolate themselves again. 

Just as the two of you are getting out of the car and heading toward the probably empty mall, Shuri gives you a wry smile. “Are you  _ really  _ Erik’s girlfriend?”

“What?” you go, surprised. “No, of course not. We’re just..acquaintances.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Acquaintances, eh?”

Right. This dude’s nickname. “No, more like friends I guess. I only just found out he was some ex-merc named Killmonger.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

You shrug, holding the mall entrance door open for her. “I don’t know  _ how  _ I feel about it. I mean, we’re just cool with each other right now or whatever so I haven’t asked any questions. It ain’t my business.”

Shuri hums at this like she’s deep in thought, before getting distracted by a Forever 21 nearby. Since it’s still early, the mall doesn’t have many people in it and usually that’s a problem for you. But seeing as you are currently keeping the Princess of Wakanda company this is the perfect scenario. 

She’s cool, a little goofy, and definitely a refreshing change in the normal irritating interactions you have with teenagers these days. You can tell she doesn’t get out much, and you can’t imagine being an heiress to a crown that’s been the world’s biggest kept secret since the beginning. You’d probably go stir crazy and run away or some shit. 

But at the end of the day you’re honored you were trusted, or rather deemed harmless, despite the fact that you definitely caught that the two of you were being followed by a couple of strong looking beautiful, bald women with eyes that could kill. Of course, there’s no way in hell the Princess would be let loose without  _ any  _ kind of backup.

You’re glad they were there the whole time just in case you were approached and shit went south, because you left your mace at home and you can’t fight worth a  _ damn. _

  
  


* * *

Your mediocre, okay life sees fit to return to its rightful place after keeping Shuri busy for a few hours and it lasts an entire four weeks before you can’t take it anymore. Work, whip up something quick, sleep, repeat. You’re so sick of the monotony of your day-to-day that you find yourself texting everyone in your contact list every half hour. That’s only really four people; your girls, your mom, and Erik. 

You do find out from your mom, though, that a friend of the family that breeds Pit Bulls is expecting to put a litter up for adoption soon; another week or so and they’ll be ready for new homes. Despite the fact that your apartment allows no ‘aggressive’ breeds your heart aches to see the babies. Your mom knows you, she’s your mom, and her last text to you telling you to stay your dramatic ass away makes perfect sense. You’d just cry.

Lying bored in your bed, freshly showered and dressed in nothing but a pair of boyshorts and a tee, you scroll through your phone and wonder how you’re about to spend this Friday night alone. Your girls haven’t responded to your messages just yet, and Erik hasn’t traded non-sexual words with you in five days. He’s been MIA, and his literal last message to you before you got an impromptu facetime from him was a crude: ‘ _ how my pussy doing.’ _

You had a charcoal mask on when you answered, saying an honest ‘she’s fine, bitch’ before continuing the labor of taking down your box braids. He was fully expecting some phone sex, you’re sure, but that was never your cup of tea. Even though it was just him on the other end you felt weird about doing the things he wanted you to. He kept telling you to touch yourself for him but after the third time you caved and made a compromise; long story short no one can trace the video back to you since you refused to show your masked face. Besides, half your head was braided and the other half was undone.

You wonder where he is , because the background in the facetime video was definitely not his bedroom and you could hear voices faintly in the distance. For his freaky ass to expect you to expose yourself like this when he probably wasn’t alone is his most brazen act yet. But other than that, you’re shocked that you were able to actually hold pleasant conversation with him over the phone. It’s like you’re much more comfortable when you’re outside the range of that intense gaze of his. 

Love and Hip Hop plays idly in the background on your tv, you’re only half paying attention to whatever fight was slightly egged on by production when Sydney texts you.

_ Get dressed we’re goin to Club Tropic - Syd _

You groan, sticking your face in the comforter. Club Tropic is probably the trashiest nightclub in town, and if it wasn’t the fact that the bathroom reeks of STDs there’s the small problem of the overpriced drinks. The only redeemable quality is the funky 80s neon theme it has going on, but no one really goes to Tropic to do anything but try and catch a funny video to put on snapchat. 

Despite its shortcomings you could do for some laughter, so you tell Sydney you’re game before getting up to look through your closet. As you flip through your clothes, you find that you literally hate everything inside. The closet is full of babydoll dresses that normally you think are cute but nothing is ‘sexy’. Nothing is club attire. You want to look like a baddie without wearing denim, not like you’re onset for a Lana Del Rey video. That’s fine for work, but it isn’t what you’re looking for.

After what feels like an eternity of searching you pull out a simple black off the shoulder dress. It’s made of cotton and it’s very breathable, simple enough that you can take your new jewelry out for a test run. You don’t know if Erik wanted you to go somewhere dumb expensive but that’s not how you do things, you found some boutique in the mall and got some more gold chains. Dainty, cute charm bracelets and a couple of pairs of earrings. For spending a certain amount of money they threw in an ankle bracelet, and you can’t lie and act like it didn’t feel good to just walk into a store and get whatever you wanted. You even got some high end makeup; a few lipsticks and an absolutely blinding highlighter.The rest of your shit is drugstore, cheap doesn’t always equal terrible.

Putting on some music to get you hype, you begin getting ready. Weirdly enough, it’s always your favorite part of going out, moreso than the actual going out part. You put on your makeup, singing along to your current playlist with a bit of a jump in your mood. At the very least you and your girls are going to take some sexy ass photos for instagram later.

Whenever the three of you go to a club it’s customary to all meet up at someone’s apartment and then take an Uber. That way, if any of you drink too much there’s no risk of driving  _ and  _ the three of you will be together both arriving and leaving. You can’t fuck with drunk ass men after dark.  You wish you could take Zeus with you. Hell, even Erik. 

Face done, you slide on your dress, making sure to wear the best strapless push up bra in your apartment. It being a club night you went a little heavier on the makeup, adding some lashes and a dark cherry lipstick for that ‘dramatic’ effect that they always talk about on the commercials.  A few pieces of jewelry, some recently bought perfume in all the right places; you’re ready. After you took your braids down you decided to give your hair a bit of a rest and try one of Kayla’s lace fronts. She’s weird in that she had it made and decided she hated it on her, her face is apparently ‘too square,’ so you decided to see how it looks for yourself. 

You’ve always liked long hair, that’s why you make sure to get your braids and twists down to your butt when you get them, but you’ve never worn straight hair this long. It reaches to about mid back, and you hum in appreciation at the body and softness of it. 

Sydney calls right as you start searching for that pair of black heels with the suede strap going across the foot and you answer her via speakerphone. “Yeah?”

“You ready yet?” she says, and judging by the noise she’s in the car with the windows down. “Me and Kay are on our way and we  _ know  _ your slow ass is never done on time.”

“Lies!” you retort, laughing. “I’m always the first done because I don’t ever have shit to wear.”

The doorbell rings, and it’s still beyond you why your apartment has a doorbell. You can’t even count how many times you’ve heard the neighbors’ own and gotten to the door to find no one there. You hang up the phone after confirming you’re ready to go, but you pause with your hand on the knob. 

“Who is it?” you call quietly. There’s always something in you to be wary when people just show up to your door. One of your biggest fears is being mistaken for someone else and popped over some ‘oops’ type shit.

That, deep, husky voice answers back. “Open the door, goofy ass.”

You do, staring up at Erik as he raises his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of you. You’re sure he expected to see you in some sweats with your braids back in a ponytail but instead he caught you on your way out the door. “God _ damn.” _

You try not to laugh at his obvious shock before stepping aside to let him in. He only steps around you, looking you up and down, taking you in with those eyes of his and  you can already tell what he’s thinking. It’s like he’s stuck staring at your ass in that dress, and you almost want to be cheeky and ‘pretend’ to drop something when you notice the blood on him.

It’s some on his neck, his shirt too, with the biggest stain seeping through the right sleeve of his denim jacket. You’re worried and you don’t know why, but Erik waves his hands in dismissal at you when he sees your face.

You run to get your first aid kit out of the bathroom, ignoring his insistence that he’s fine, and when you come back he’s examining himself in the mirror hanging on your living room wall. 

There’s a shallow cut on his arm, and he seems to be trying to judge if it needs stitches or not. He doesn’t seem fazed at all and you wonder, as you go up to him with a wet paper towel, if he even  _ felt  _ the shit until you pointed it out. 

“Here,” you say, trying to get to the bloody smear on his neck. “What happened to you?”

“Nothin’,” he lies, taking the napkin from you and doing it himself. “Don’t worry about it. Where the hell you goin’ lookin’ like that?”

You straighten your posture and yank down your dress a bit. “I’m going out, Erik. My life isn’t very exciting I have to take what I can get.”

He snorts, peering at you through the mirror. “If you bored, baby, I can fix that shit real quick.”

“Oh really?” you say, leaning closer. “How you gonna fix it for me?”

If you weren’t about to leave you’d be back flipping to the bedroom, but going by the way he’s looking at you you probably shouldn’t have teased him. You didn’t spend all that time beating your face and getting all dolled up just to have your good work turn into a smear on your bedsheets. 

Erik grabs you by the thighs, lifting you so you have no choice but to wrap your legs around his waist to keep from falling, and you have to grab the wall as he tries to turn the corner into the hallway. “Wait! No, I have plans tonight. And you’re bleeding!”

“Forget all that,” he goes, staring you down. “You got me fucked up if you think you about to go twerk on clown ass niggas in some club lookin’ like this.”

“What, so I can’t dance?” you ask, rolling your eyes. “Last time I checked I was single, sir.”

He just looks at you and you look back. You’re not about that shit where guys will sleep with a girl occasionally only to act like she can’t be in the presence of other men. You don’t like jealousy, especially coming from a man like him. So volatile. Dangerous.

Just then, your girls start knocking on your door and you hop out of Erik’s arms. He grabs your arm just as you turn to grab your purse. “So you single, huh.”

You frown, looking at him and giving an unsure, “Yes?”

“Bet.”

Not this shit again. You roll your eyes up to the ceiling and shake your head because he can’t possibly thing you actually belong to him after a couple fucks and nearly a month or so of random conversations via text. It’s actually been about a month since you met him at the barbecue, and you still know next to nothing about him. He knows a lot about you, and yes maybe you overshared a little during that one drunken phone call rant last week, but he can’t be serious! You’re  _ bad  _ at relationships, or long term booty calls, and he can’t possibly be looking for one either. 

Ignoring the persistent knocking of your friends you put both hands on your hips and look him straight in the eye. “Listen, nigga, don’t look at me like I pissed  _ you _ off. I’m only telling the truth; i’m single, you’re single, we’re both two horny ass people out here trying to fuck. Am I wrong? Is that a false statement? I’ve let you raw me like twice and I don’t even know you! I don’t even know if ‘Erik’ is your real name! I feel like it’s not but it’s not like you’d tell me anyway. I. Don’t. Know. You. You don’t get to come in here and act like some Alpha Male-and-you-”

“ _ OPEN THE DOOR, BITCH!”  _ shocks you out of your endless rant and you flinch, forgetting all about Sydney and Kayla outside. You’re sure they could hear you screaming at Erik but you don’t care because he’s managed to kill your vibe with one damn word. ‘Bet.’ Bet bet bet bet bet, you  _ hate  _ the word. 

Sure, maybe you’ve began to enjoy his company despite your rational brain telling you otherwise. Sure, maybe the bad shit about him  _ is  _ in the past now, maybe he’s experienced a shift that’s made him different somehow in a way that you shouldn’t be afraid of. So what? He’s secretive, he’s jealous, and he has a habit of manipulating you in ways you never notice until well after it’s happened. 

The fact that you’ve been talking for a month will always be irrelevant until he stops lurking around with all these secrets while he gets you to open up in every sense of the word. He’s seen you at your most exposed, and you don’t even  _ know him.  _ He’s just so smooth in the way he uses his compliments and his hands on you as if only you matter when you  _ know  _ he has to have other chicks buzzing around his fancy ass house.

Erik’s not even looking at you anymore, and you don’t even want to go out. Your mood is obliterated, but you open your front door all the same. Sydney and Kayla peer around you to look at him standing in your living room before looking you over to see if anything is amiss. You push past them with a huff, not even bothering to lock your door because you’re at that point of not caring anymore. Men are  _ annoying.  _

* * *

 

 

The music of Tropico can be heard all the way around the block, the sound and the lights pouring out into the dark street and parked cars around it. You walk with your arms firmly linked with Sydney and Kayla on both sides, all three of you sounding like horses click-clacking on the ground in your heels. Your feet hurt already but if there’s anything you know is to grin and bear it. 

You’ve been trying not to think about the embarrassing blow up you had at Erik, but it’s honestly how you feel. Mostly you’ve been afraid of catching feelings, because of his mystery and because of your history. Not one of your romantic escapades has ended well, even those before your last boyfriend, and you just  _ know  _ that a man like him can’t possibly want more than a couple numbers to call whenever he gets especially horny. It’s not like he  _ asks  _ you about yourself, nor does he tell you about himself! You’re basically strangers; strangers with a couple odd moments of conversation between the bedsheets. 

It’s annoying, he’s always on your mind, even though he’s crude and brash and self-centered. He’s guarded, and secretive, and does things like ‘go to work’ only to disappear for days with no contact. Or like tonight, end up bloody and bruised as if nothing is wrong. 

By the time you get into the club your feet are  _ dying,  _ and you go straight to the bar and order a whiskey sour. It takes a bit to get you tipsy, usually you can hit a comfortable happy high after a few but at the moment you know you’re going to be responsible for your lit friends.

The bartender slides you the glass (you’ve made sure to watch him make it), and the first sip stings something in the back of your jaw. You wince, pressing two fingers to the spot as if that’ll help and someone standing to the right of you starts chuckling. When you look up you don’t expect to see such blindingly white teeth smiling at you. 

The man leaning on the stool next to you is tall, dark, and handsome in every sense of the word with his nicely tailored shirt and slacks, with deep brown skin and kind eyes. He looks exactly like the type of man your mom wants you to bring home one day. Some kind of doctor, some kind of lawyer or something that will make all of your aunties jump for joy and finally stop gossiping about you at the cookouts. They gossipped about you  _ forever  _ once you dumped yout previous boyfriend, making rash accusations and constructing whole ass narratives that all implied you were somehow responsible for the demise of your fake relationship. It made you sick with stress;  _ he  _ made you sick with stress.

Men are annoying. 

“You alone?” Prince Charming asks, smiling at you with those bright teeth again. “I’ve never seen you in here.”

A man that actively hangs out in this dump of a club could be nothing but trouble, but you decide to play nice for a second. If you’re aloof enough you’ll be able to get him off you without making much effort. 

You shake your head, gesturing to the two girls currently trying to out twerk each other on the dance floor.  “I’m here with my friends.”

“Your friends, huh.”

He trails off, taking a sip of his own drink and you look away from him uneasily. Are you legitimately feeling it or just looking for reasons again like you did with Erik? They say to always trust your gut but when is it ever your gut and not just paranoia about your gut? Intuition is a tricky thing, you’ve never  figured out how to deal with it but you know for a fact you aren’t that comfortable by the way old dude is just sliding his way closer to you. 

You look up at him when he puts an arm around you, tensing just a little involuntarily, and you hope the wig tape you have on hasn’t shifted because he’s definitely pulling on your hair a little. 

He starts talking about literally nothing, finding ways to slip in compliments about your appearance as he compares you to the other women mingling in the dark room. That type of shit has always rubbed you the wrong way, personally, and you don’t like to be complimented at the sake of some poor woman who’s trying to have fun on a Friday night. 

You roll your eyes and take chug the rest of your drink, slamming the glass down and waving the bartender over with an impatient hand. Studying the laminated menu you see a bunch of things you don’t recognize but you call out the most delicious sounding thing with an exasperated sigh.

“Little Peaty. Is it a shot?”

“It is a shot,” replies the bartender, nodding. “You want more than one?”

“Gimme three, please,” you sigh, feeling a headache coming on. The man next to yoou tries to flex and makes a big show of sliding his card to the bartender but you don’t pay him any attention, too focused on watching your shots being mixed. 

Once the bartender comes back, you ask him what’s in it.

“Well,” he says, leaning against the bar. “Hennessy, Ardbeg, Grand Marnier, and… a cherry.”

Just as you go to take the first shot, two hands grab the other s and you’re about to swing until you see it’s just your friends. Kayla has her cell phone out and she excitedly shouts about you finally having some fun for once. She counts to three and you all take them to the head, only the damn cherry slides right on down your throat and you start choking. It’s stuck there like a rock, and you honest to god feel like you’re on your way out until Sydney hits you hard enough on the back that you throw up. 

You feel bad for puking on the floor, but you don’t feel bad at all when it gets on Prince Charming’s shoes. It’s like the facade cracks, and he really has the audacity to call you a ‘messy bitch’ under his breath like he isn’t standing right next to you. Sydney and Kayla chase him away from you with their loud ass mouths and you’re left to wipe away the tears streaming down your face from choking. The bartender hands you a couple napkins and tells you not to worry about the mess, and that you probably should’ve sipped that. Obviously.

The rest of the night goes about as smoothly as you figured it would have, in that it completely sucks ass and you spend most of it feeling queasy in the filthy bathroom. Drinking so much on an empty stomach completely fucked you over and you’re just happy the bartender keeps sliding you glasses of ice water. You wish you were at home, and after the fifth dry heave you want to call an Uber for yourself. 

Kayla and Sydney are still living their best lives on the dance floor, and you feel bad for wanting to go home. There’s no way in hell you’ll be able to stagger your way into the crowd and get their attention, so you send a quick text to the group chat to tell them you’re on your way out. 

Prince Charming is too busy chatting up some other woman to notice you leaving and for that you’re glad; those weird date rape-y vibes haven’t stopped radiating off of him ever since you saw him glare at the bartender for remaking a drink he tried to slide you.

He notices you as you’re making your way to the door and you want to cry because you  _ really  _ can’t be bothered. “Hey-let me take you home, you look terrible.”

“No thank you,” you sigh, clutching your cell phone. “And thank you?”

He laughs. “That’s not what I meant, beautiful, I-”

“Beautiful? Didn’t you call me a messy bitch like 45 minutes ago?”

You see right through his ass, how he keeps flashing you that million dollar smile as if it’ll magically make him not seem like a dickhead, and you’re not impressed in the slightest. He stops you when you try and walk around him, holding an arm out to keep you from going.

“C’mon, beautiful,” he persists. “I can’t in good conscience let you go alone right now. This neighborhood is dangerous for women at night.”

You really don’t have the strength for this, physically or mentally, and you half stomp back to the bar to order  _ one  _ more drink for the road. Prince Charming is still throwing words in your direction but you aren’t paying him any attention. He really thinks he’s going home with you, or the very least, that he’ll get you in his car and you’ll be damned if you let that happen. So you pull out your cell phone and send the address of the bar to Erik. His number still isn’t saved in your contacts. 

  
  


-

  
  


You’ve never been happier to see that mean ass face when he finally walks through the low doorway into the club, looking around through the cloud of cigar smoke. You hate that you love the way he walks, prowling around the room and shamelessly checking out other women that try and back it up on him. Prince Charming is lingering around you still, convincing himself of this idea that you’re leaving with him, and you sit with your legs crossed patiently waiting for your ‘knight in shining grills’ to rescue you. 

Erik finally makes his way to the bar, taking your glass from you and drinking the rest before complaining about it being too sweet. 

You scoff, still feeling terrible. “Took you long enough, I’m glad he didn’t try to kidnap me.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, just looking over his shoulder at where Prince Charming is looking at you, before shaking his head. “C’mon, lil bit.”

It’s the best thing you’ve heard all day, and you grab his arm as he saunters out of the club and into the humid night. It feels like rain, and sure enough you feel a couple drops of water on your face as you slide into the passenger’s seat. The drive is silent, uncomfortably so, but you refuse to apologize for your earlier outburst because you weren’t wrong. 

But you feel shitty enough. Your boring life, your boring job, your bad luck, everything. You crave all the change you can get and the man currently nodding to the beat of the song playing is the one rogue variable. And he doesn’t say a word to you the entire drive, not until he’s well in his neck of the woods and you’ve nodded off a couple times.

“_____,” he says, patting your thigh. “Aye.”

“What?” you grumble, rubbing your eye and taking off an eyelash.

“Get up or i’m leavin’ yo ass in this car.”

And so you do, making your way after him in the cool night air. You stumble on a stone in the path and your heel catches on one. As your ankle completely twists to hell and back you wonder, honestly, if Loki or some shit is personally making sure you have bad luck. It’s the only way you can rationalize all these petty misfortunes you’ve been suffering from. Everything starts suddenly crashing down on you and it’s to the point where you don’t even care how you look, currently crying in a heap on a nice cobblestone driveway while the object of your fucked up affections stares at you.

Erik rolls his eyes at you and calls you some more names, seeming as if he can’t stay irritated the more pitiful you become. You’re a mess, a nauseous, Henny filled mess that can’t find much to be happy about in your life. You love your girls to death, and Zeus, and your family, but you wonder if it’s selfish to want a little more? Some excitement, something that makes you want to look forward to the week rather than  _ only  _ the weekend. 

Maybe you need to take a chunk out of your savings and take your friends with you to Jamaica or some shit. Just splurge on something different. 

Erik carries you inside silently, all the way up to his bedroom where he lays you on that soft black blanket on the foot of his bed. Its softness doesn’t do much to make you stop boo-hooing, and all you can do is lay there as you feel your shoes being removed. Erik’s calloused hands are surprisingly gentle on your hurt ankle, and he seems to be inspecting it when you look at him. His face doesn’t hold much emotion other than indifference, but he isn’t glaring at you like before so that’s good. 

“Look at you,” he suddenly says, standing up. “Messy ass.”

“I’m not  _ drunk,”  _ you emphasize, wiping away tears and makeup. “I’m  _ unhappy.  _ There’s a difference.”

He snorts before disappearing into the master bathroom. You can hear things being moved around and sifted through, and when he returns he tosses a pack of makeup remover wipes at you. It looks brand new, like only one was used, and you give him a questioning look.

“Some girl I had over here once left her shit so,” he points to your foot. “Lift.”

You watch him wrap your already swelling ankle, wincing a little at his touch, and all you can think of is trying to get to work with a twisted ankle. Sure, your job is to sit down all day, but there’s quite a bit of distance you have to walk. The lobby to the offices, the offices to the breakrooms, the building is huge. It’s part of the reason you don’t actively exercise any more. 

Erik hands you a tee and some sweats, and you limp over to the bathroom to get cleaned up and changed. It’s true, you look like the messiest bitch to ever walk out of a club with the way your eye makeup has run down your face in inky rivers. Your lipstick is faded and smeared, and you only have on one eyelash strip. They were the expensive mink ones too; now you feel silly for spending more than a couple bucks on lashes. You take all of your jewelry off and lay it on the bathroom counter. It’s like now the glamour has worn off and you feel like returning everything. 

Once your rings, necklaces and earrings are laid out in front of you you begin removing your makeup. It’s all very therapeutic , almost as much as it was to put on, and you get a nice moment of self reflection as you observe yourself naked in the mirror. The wig you’re wearing is a bit off kilter and too much for you to feel like fixing so that comes off too. 

Now you’re very naked, but still not enough. Your hair is in simple cornrows, and you think you look too tomboyish and lollipop-headed so you start taking those down with trembling hands. One by one you release your curls, soft and smelling of the leave in conditioner you put in. And by the time you’re done, dressed in Erik’s clothes in Erik’s bathroom in Erik’s house, you frown at the different person in front of you. Nothing is satisfying you today, not even the way your curls are falling and framing your face in a way that you’d normally scream for joy in. It’s funny how they never acted right until you weren’t really trying.

Your eyes are puffy and red from crying, and you think your naked face looks very childish, but you just want to try and sleep the night off for the vain hopes you’d feel better in the morning. 

Erik catches you just as you limp out of the bathroom. He’s fiddling around with a gun, laid out in parts as he polishes individual pieces with a cloth. “You good?”

“No,” you answer honestly, watching him curiously. “Not really.”

“Hm.”

He keeps on and you keep watching, trying not to pretend you don’t feel queasy at the sight of the gun. It’s small, smaller than you think would fit comfortably in his hands and when you ask Erik says it isn’t his. 

You ask, “Whose gun is it?”

“Yours.”

“What? I’m not carrying that!”

Scoffing at you, Erik puts the handgun back together so fast you hardly see it before he’s pointing it at some invisible target on the wall. You stand there, horrified, as he steps behind you to put it in your own hands so now you’re about to murder this apparent ghost. His hands guiding yours are gentle again, which is ironic considering he’s whispering all the places to shoot to kill in your ear. Where arteries are located, which shots are death guaranteed and which ones are strict incapacitators. You really don’t have the constitution for this subject matter and you argue that you’re good with just a taser.

“You can’t fight, can’t remember to lock doors behind you and shit, you get scared by Carlton-lookin’ ass niggas in clubs; you’d better take this damn gun.”

“I’ll think about it,” you sigh, turning around and looking up at him with tired eyes. He looks you up and down, and it’s like he suddenly notices your hair because he immediately sticks his hand in it. You feel like melting, and you hope he doesn’t think it’s weird that you want to hug him. Or rather, you want him to hug  _ you  _ so damn bad that you want to cry. You can’t remember how long you just craved base level intimacy and touches from your ex and was never able to receive it. You hate him so much. Devon Sanders fucked you up so bad he pushed you into the arms of a literal killer, mentally begging for him to wrap his arms around you so you can stop feeling so apathetic about everything. 

You start crying again and Erik seems fed up, pushing you over into the bed and shutting the lights off with the click of a remote control. The pillowcases are satin, and so cool to your warm face that it temporarily stops your emotional break. You have to quickly get it together, though, because your ringing cell phone screen has three letters on it you did not expect.

“Hey, Mom,” you say quietly, rolling onto your side and facing the window. It’s open, and a cool draft is coming in. It’s funny, you only just noticed that the house isn’t freezing cold tonight. 

“You been crying?” your mom asks, always so perceptive. 

“No,” you say, closing your eyes. “I’m just, I drank too much I guess. I don’t know, i’ve been feeling very stressed out lately.”

You know it’s coming before it officially does, the way that she starts getting on you about stress and how you can’t possibly be that stressed out with the easy ‘do-nothing’ job you have. With a sigh you bury your head into the pillow, because now you’re stuck in a vicious cycle in which you’ll end the interaction even more stressed out than you started. The tears come back out like someone’s popped a cork on your eyes, and that terrible kicked puppy squeal comes out of your mouth before you can muffle it with your hand. Your mother is talking on the other end, still, but all you can hear is far-away noise until a hand reaches over you and hits  _ End Call.  _

This fool is going to get you cussed out later. 

You roll over to tell him about himself but he’s already yanking you out of bed. Stumbling after him, you go to remind him that you just twisted your ankle but the words die on your lips once the fear that he’s actually throwing you out crosses your mind. It’s pathetic, but you want to beg him not to get rid of you just yet. You’ve only gotten a taste and it hasn’t been enough.

Instead of tossing you out into the night, Erik pulls you into the bathroom, flicking the switch and pushing you closer to the mirror. Rather than look at yourself you look at the way he’s towering above you, glowering at you in a way that 

makes you excited and that’s probably pathetic. 

He’s predictably straight to the point.

“Yo cryin’ ass is gettin’ on my damn nerves.”

You frown, trying to look intimidating but only managing to look even  _ more  _ like a kicked puppy. Erik reaches around to grab your face, putting enough of his weight on you to make you brace yourself with both hands on the sink. 

He tightens his grip on your face, making it so you’re looking at yourself and not him. While he’s not  _ exactly  _ choking you up you’re a little scared at the pleasant goosebumps running up your arms. “______.”

You look at him again and his hand tightens around where he’s holding your jaw. You look back at yourself, very happy that his tee shirt is so large on you because he’d be able to see what his grip on your face is doing to the rest of your body.

“Look at all this,” he shoots in your ear, using his other hand to lift your large shirt. “I ain’t never seen nobody as fine as you.”

You roll your eyes and look at him through the mirror again, but he doesn’t squeeze you again, much to your dismay. “Don’t lie just to make me feel better, Erik.”

_ Especially because it’ll work _ , you think sadly. When did it get this bad? This  _ awful  _ need for validation from someone?

“I ain’t lyin’,” he says simply, turning you around and lifting you onto the counter. Immediately you think of that day at the cookout almost a month ago when you were alone with him for the first time and felt that chaotic energy radiating off him in the most attractive way. “What you so sad for, lil bit?”

Both of your faces are very close together, and you want to close the distance so bad but you don’t move. “I hate my job.”

“Quit, then.”

“I need to pay my bills.”

“Let me take care of all that.”

You scoff, looking at the floor. There’s no way in hell you’ll allow that. All of the money he’s given you so far has always made you uncomfortable, you feel too weird about it. Besides, when Erik gets sick of you, and he will because that’s what men do to you, you’ll be left looking stupid with no income and no job. You’d have to search for another, or go shamefully crawling back to your data entry gig, feeling worse because now you’ve lost your comfortable meal ticket.

Shaking your head, you refuse the offer with, “No, you can’t.”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want with my shit,” he goes, making you look at him again. “What’d I tell you last time.”

“You know, your questions never sound like a question. They never have that upward inflect-”

He pinches you right on the thigh for that observation and you yelp before kicking him in the leg for it. There’s a bit of silence afterward, you bashfully trying to avoid his eyes on you and him doing what he always does; be fine in your presence. 

That devil and angel are back again to annoy you, except instead of red latex the devil is wearing a nicely tailored pantsuit and the angel is in a white thong to confuse you. You hate this, and you close your eyes as you mull over your two options. On one hand, you’re close to a complete emotional break and could use a month away from it all. And on the other, letting a man that’s not your boyfriend ball out on you like this is against your better principles. It makes you feel as if you owe him something, and that’s not a good feeling. You don’t want to owe anyone,  _ anything  _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry the guest appearances were so short im so nervous to write t'challa and shuri shfgd, they'll definitely be back soon tho if yall liked that part!


	8. whomst?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another small sex scene i felt awkward writing ahead ;;; i'll get better at em i promise
> 
> also i split the beginning of this chapter from the last which is why it's in the middle of a scene...in retrospect it reads kind of awkward but damage is done lol  
> thank you to everyone leaving nice comments!!

Erik leans closer to speak in your ear. “Let me take care of you, lil bit. Quit questioning everything.”

“But-”

“And quit thinkin’ bout that nigga that left you,” he goes, placing a kiss on your jaw. “Anybody that’d leave this fat ass is fuckin’ stupid.”

“Oh, wow,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “So if I wasn’t out here doing squats then you wouldn’t care?”

He leans back to look at you, scoffing. “You ain’t doing no damn squats. Can’t even walk up the steps without gettin’ winded.”

You have absolutely no defense to this, because it’s true, and you’re a little upset that he caught you wheezing. It’s not your fault exercising sucks. It hurts, and you’re happy to do laps around your job as a replacement. Shit, it basically counts with how big that building is.

Erik continues placing kisses along your jaw, his facial hair tickling you, but all you can think of is how to maybe get him to possibly grip your face again. You come to a conclusion as he’s making you giggle on a bathroom sink, that you’d take anything to make you forget the melancholy of your regular day-to-day. The longer you sit there, trying to ignore the freak in you wanting him to be rough with you, you just want to quit your job. It’s been on your mind for months, but no one ever agreed with your desire.

Hell, even Sydney and Kayla told you to stick it out for the paycheck. Just a little longer and you’ll save a little more….

But you decide your mental health is more important for once, and you’re already preparing the spiel you’ll give to your supervisor Monday. This’ll be your last week at that dreadful, mind-numbing place. You know this is really rash, really stupid, but hell you should be allowed to be once in a while. Men like him are dangerous, they’ll have you making bad decisions.

The doorbell rings, this late at night, and Erik lets out a stream of impressive curses before he leaves you sitting on the sink. Sometimes you wonder if Erik’s a drug dealer on the low, or an arms dealer, or something of equivalent scariness. It’s the only way you can explain how secretive he is when it comes to his disappearing acts and the late ‘hours’ he puts in. It can’t be ‘princely’ duties; you could definitely tell there’s still static between him and T’Challa and for that you can see why. If Erik tried to royally fuck up the entire infrastructure of Wakanda, you’re surprised he’s even on speaking terms with the others. And that’s where you’re confused; _why_ would they pardon him for it? Why did he even try to do those things in the first place? Is he an evil, chaotic supervillain, or did he have his ( probably misguided) reasonings?

You frown in the cold bathroom, touching your neck that’s sticky from Erik’s sloppy kisses. _Stop overthinking,_ you remind yourself, hopping off the sink. Looking down at your ankle, you see it’s a blazing red, bruised deep purple in some spots, and you damn near want to start crawling once you accidentally put weight on it. That’s honestly great; you’re probably going to be stationary for a while. Maybe you _won’t_ be able to hobble your way into the office Monday.

Your cell phone, forgotten on the bed, yields a couple panicked texts from your friends along with several missed calls. Closer inspection reveals you forgot to actually send the text where you were supposed to tell them you were leaving, and you feel bad for making them worry. But now that you have the time, you open up the three way group chat  and send a quick update.

_Sorry. Forgot to tell y’all I left._

Sydney gets back to you first.

_Scatterbrained ass. I’m sick of you! - Syd_

You don’t get anything from Kayla, so she must be already passed out. It’s pushing 2 am now, and normally you’d be asleep too but your thot brain is currently making you ache for a hand around your jaw. All that rough business isn’t really ever something you thought you’d like, and maybe you still don’t, but you can’t lie and act like you weren’t ready to just start presenting when he was grabbing you like that. You try to imagine if he had had his hand on your neck instead, and it reminds you of when Kayla was dating her last boyfriend and she admitted to you and Sydney that he’d choked her up once during sex to the point she passed out when she came. Both you and Sydney rolled your eyes at this, because being choked couldn’t possibly do anything than make you want to fight, but she was surprised yet adamant it happened.

Sydney proclaimed she’d shoot a man that tried to put his hands around her neck in any facet, and you had to agree, but now you shamefully want to add an exception. Obviously, a non-lethal, consensual neck grip couldn’t equal ‘choking,’ right?

You stare at the ceiling in Erik’s bedroom, frustrated. It’d be nice if he could hurry it up downstairs and finish trying to make you feel better, especially before you fall asleep. You’re not going to go be nosy and see what’s up, that would probably only get you cussed out. So you sit, angry and horny and sad, with your arms folded and ankle sore.

Erik doesn’t make a return until damn near 6 in the morning and you’ve been awake the entire time, angrily watching some old Nicktoons reruns of Rugrats and Hey Arnold! He doesn’t even pay you any attention first, disappearing into another room without saying anything, and you really wish you could follow him. He gives you a passing glance once he comes back in, and you wonder if he forgot you were even there.

You have to snap at him when he passes you again, only for him to stop and look at you like you’re crazy for it.

“You just left me up here,” you complain, not caring how you sound. You sure do get a lot of leg injuries around him. He could at least have the decency to finish what you started.

He’s still looking at you like you’re out of your rabbit ass mind for snapping at him and for a second you’re afraid he’s going to toss you out the window. His eyes look vicious, and not in the good way like he’s about to fuck you into the mattress, but in the way that you scoot backwards a little bit.

You squeak out a quiet apology, trying to disappear into the headboard, and it’s like a switch gets flipped in Erik’s eyes. Now he’s back to ignoring you as he goes into the bathroom to turn the shower on. Once he’s gone you let out a shaky breath, wondering what you just set off by trying to get his attention that way. Sure, snapping at people is rude all things considered but you didn’t think it’d make him look at you like that.

On the tv, the opening credits to  _All That!_ Starts up and you hum in appreciation at all these throwback kids shows. You definitely need to upgrade your cable package, and that’s what you’re thinking of as you lie on your side in wait for Erik to come out of the bathroom. It’s hard to kind of lay there without thinking too many dirty thoughts; but you keep trying to focus on the tv show so you don’t end up too disappointed less he just ignore you again.

And it’s right when the Good Burger sketch starts that you smell that intoxicating shower gel seeping under the bathroom door. It’s some earthy, deep scent like so many ‘male’ colognes and gels but this one isn’t so strong it makes your nose burn. Erik smells like some kind of expensive candle that smells entirely too subtle to cost as much as it does. Your friends always say your comparisons are too detailed and lame, but you can’t help but try and relate everything to something else.

You go back to lazily watching the tv again, just as Erik exits the bathroom. The towel is wrapped so loosely around his waist you wonder how it’s even staying put. It’s all you can focus on, his absolutely ridiculous body and all those scars. Your eyes travel as low as they possibly can, coming to a stop at the very obvious print he’s got going on. When you look up at his face, he’s staring at you with a face you can’t exactly read. You wonder if he can sense you literally jonesing for him like a whole weirdo.

You say, “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I don’t even snap at Zeus.”

And he snorts at you, going to look through the dresser under the tv and you wonder if he’s mad at you. Technically he could be mad at your (justified) outburst last night before you went out, or he could be mad that you snapped at him. The first one is the only one that actually makes sense, but you decide to ask.

You lean up painfully and go, “Are you mad at me?”

Secretly, you want him to be. Just a little. God, you just want his hands on you. He’s facing away from you, but when you breath out his name in that way guys always like their names said, you see the muscles in his back tense for a second. You hobble over to him, running your hands over his broad shoulders and hoping you don’t irritate him again.

It’s like you’re addicted to the way his skin feels, so soft despite it not looking it’d be so. You just want him to give you some lame, cheesy physical affection aside from the way he caresses you before putting you to sleep. He hasn’t kissed you in a minute either.

“Fuckin’ crybaby,” he mutters, bumping you out the way. “You get on my nerves.”

“No I don’t,” you say back, trying your best to hop after him around the room. He gets increasingly annoyed the more you follow him, and you try hard to stifle your giggling until you can’t anymore. He suddenly turns around to grab you, and you start involuntarily snort-laughing as he lifts you like you weigh next to nothing. You get real airtime when he tosses you onto the bed, bouncing so hard you flip over the other side and off. One leg hits the nightstand and the other, injured one, hits the wall with a hard  _SMACK_ and you’re really about to show him what a crybaby looks like. 

You hear him say, “Damn, my bad, baby,” but all you can do in response is groan into the side of his bed. He’s definitely trying not to laugh at you and sure, it probably looked funny how you flopped off the bed but you  _really_ feel like calling the ambulance.

“Oh my god,” you whine as he lifts you back up again. There are tears rolling down your eyes but you aren’t actually crying. “Rough ass!”

When you look at Erik you see he’s definitely laughing at you and the idiot part of your brain doesn’t give a damn because his smile is breathtaking. He looks like a different person when he smiles, and you wonder if every girl he gets with gets the chance to see it. You aren’t so self centered as to think you’re the one and only. It’d be nice, but that won’t ever work.

He lays you down, gently, hovering over you and you ask him a question in a voice that’s gone all quiet. “How many other girls you toss around like ragdolls?”

He sucks his teeth at you. “I’m not fuckin’ with nobody else right now, and you better not be either. I fuckin’ told you.”

“Told me what?” you roll your eyes, because he didn’t technically answer your question.

“That this is  _my_ pussy.”

You laugh at him. “You’re so possessive.”

He’s smirking at you, lowering his body onto yours and he’s so damn heavy that you kind of wince. “But you like that rough shit. I saw you in that bathroom earlier.”

“What?” You try and laugh it off, because he can’t be that perceptive, can he? That’s a bit scary, but he  _is_ a killer…

“You think a nigga can’t tell when you turned on?” He raises an eyebrow. “‘Cuz it don’t take much.”

You just lay there, watching him watch you while nicktoons is on in the background, wondering if he’s for real as far as not being with any other girls right now. Even though a part of you feels vain satisfaction for it, the other doesn’t.

“Well,” you say. “You don’t  _have_ to stop...with other girls..”

“Nah, lil bit,” he says, smirking. “You too god damn fine. Got a nigga  _jonesin_ and shit-”

This makes you start laughing in his face, and you cover your mouth with one hand so it’s not too gross and you don’t humiliate yourself even further. You don’t know why it’s so funny but it is, maybe because you’re not used to being desired like this. And maybe he’s just talking you up to make you stop crying and whining around him, but it does make you feel a little better about your current situation. This shitty night has given you an epiphany.

The sun is starting to rise now, bathing the room in light you don’t want to confront just yet. Morning means going home and going grocery shopping and playing damage control with your Mom. You don’t want this terrible night to end, and you vainly hope, as you press your lips to Erik’s, that all of your responsibilities can just go away.

When he finally gets up to close the blinds your lips feel numb from his kisses and his biting, and a couple questions are buzzing around your head now that it’s clearer than a few hours before.

“Can I ask you some questions?” you asks, mentally kicking yourself from phrasing it like that. You sound like a cop.

Erik climbs back over you, putting all his weight on his forearms on either side of your head. “What.”

Hesitantly, you gesture to the hundreds of uniform scars covering his body. You don’t even have to awkwardly find the right words because Erik nods, snorting like he’s discussed this a million times.

“Each one is for a kill,” he replies simply, as if the implication isn’t literally horrifying. You try not to dwell too much on it because you’ll get in your own head and run away screaming.

“Did it hurt?” You ask, voice quiet again. It’s an obvious question, but you can’t find the courage to ask  _why_ he did it.

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet again, and you try to think of another question to ask as Erik’s rough hands are yanking your sweatpants down and holding both your legs open. You wonder if you feel as hot to him as you think you do, because his fingers have you on fire. Writhing, and sighing beneath him, you forget all of those questions buzzing around your mind. The important ones, the dangerous ones, all the worrying things about him that make you hesitant to keep it moving with him. You love this attention,  _his_ attention, and it’s so dangerous how he has a hold on you like this but you don’t even care anymore. Hell, it feels so good you might lose it if he stops.

And just like that, he stops, the buzzing of his cell phone in your ear obviously being more important than the acrobatics his fingers were just doing inside you. The fingers he used are slick when he goes to grab his phone, and just as you open your mouth to protest he shoves them right in and nearly chokes you. He’s staring you down when you look at him, horrified, not even caring how the intrusion is making you drool in an unattractive manner.

“Taste that shit.”

Erik’s eyes are glazed over, his breathing coming out in long, drawn out pants as he watches you taste yourself. For a second you’re locked in, staring right back at him, and your body is on fire because you’ve never been in such an erotic scene. He suddenly leans up and away from you, though, chain brushing against your face as he switches some invisible trigger that has him suddenly all business on the phone. You look at the clock behind you, seeing 7:01 on the digital screen, and it’s really the fanciest clock you’ve ever seen.

It’s one of those fancy black boxes with the holographic option and you always rolled your eyes whenever you saw one in a store. A lot of Erik’s shit is either super minimalist or needlessly extra or a mixture of both. You still don’t know what’s in those other rooms he keeps on lockdown…

More importantly, you just observe him standing by the tv, speaking in what Shuri called ‘Xhosa’ with an irritated look on his face. His fingers are still wet, shining in the minimal light coming in from the closed windows and you can’t stop looking at it. You’ve never ‘tasted’ yourself before, and it’s only something you’ve seen in porn, and you don’t quite know how to describe it. Something was sweet, something was salty, and maybe something else that you can’t tell but there’s one thing you know for sure. You’ve always been so vanilla with sex until now.

And if this fine ass piece of shit doesn’t stop talking on the phone and come wreck you you’re positive you’re going to start torching his bedsheets. Every time you’re ready for him to break you in half something happens to interrupt and you wonder briefly if it’s just God telling you to pull your panties up and just go.

With a hard sigh you lean up, squeezing your thighs together uncomfortably and pouting in the direction of the man in front of you. Your eyes travel up to the chain he’s wearing, and the ring hanging from it that you’ve never noticed it before.

“Erik,” you say, pouting still. “Can you just… you know.”

You gesture to him before pointing to yourself. It’s not like he can’t fuck you and be on the phone at the same time. Shit, your ex did it once.

Luckily, he gets your drift and in one hot second his sweatpants are down and you’re backing away from his dick because you already know how he’s about to do this. You can’t keep telling him to stop slamming into you like that, because he has you incapacitated in the mornings and you’re dead serious about the fact that your whole pussy just feels sore to the touch afterwards. It’s not fun when you pee or wash, and he needs to be told about himself.

You don’t open your mouth and say anything, because Erik’s distraction has him entering you at a fourth of his normal pace. Groaning, you try and make it not-so-obvious that you’re trying to get his hand around your neck by pointing to it. At this point you’re not even ashamed at how freaky he has you acting now; no one has to know but him and you’re cool with that.

Erik is definitely out of it as he slowly moves inside of you, more focused on cussing out whoever he’s on the phone with rather than pay attention to how weak and shallow his thrusts are. You’re so fed up with his antics that you snap at him again, one-two in front of his face and the way his eyes lock onto yours has you scared again.

He ends the phone call and tosses it somewhere behind you, not taking his eyes off you once. “You got me fucked up.”

You don’t say anything, secretly relishing in the way his hands are gripping your hips, and the steely look in his eyes. Maybe you’ll regret this in a couple hours but for now you just want him to make you forget your own damn name.

Still, you decide to push him a little more with, “Don’t talk to other girls when you’re with me.”

His grip on you is vicious, and you try not to wince as he drags you closer to him so you’re half hanging off of the bed. He tells you you talk too much in his own eloquent way, before calling you a ‘fucking crybaby’ in a way that you can’t tell if he means it or not. Either way he enters you with a rough jerk of his hips, staring you hard in the eyes when you wince, and your hands go straight to the flat of his stomach out of reflex. Smacking your hands away, he puts more of his body weight on you and you feel like you’re going to go through the mattress.

“Don’t fuckin’ play with me,” he hisses in your ear, morbidly fascinating you with his aggressive behavior. You’re not afraid, because you know he won’t lose his damn mind and slap you or some shit. Hopefully.

Whining out an insincere apology, you’re forced to screw your eyes shut when Erik hits a spot inside you that makes you want to cry. Your hand shoots straight to his stomach again and he lets up on you a bit despite his apparent anger. Funnily enough, you note the complete lack of sound outside of the tv and his hips smacking into yours. When the two of you slept together at your place you were terrified of getting evicted because your headboard was absolutely pounding the damn wall. Erik’s such a damn roughneck that it both excites and annoys you. You just wish he handled you with a bit more care.  _Lil bit_ this,  _lil bit_ that, if you are, he fucks you like you’re the same size as him and you wonder if he knows how to do it any other way. He has you screaming, louder than the first time he had you in his bed, and tears are streaming down your face in rivers. It’s the kind of pleasure you think is downright sinful, and you almost let a declaration of love pass through your lips when his hand goes around your neck. You don’t know what you love; his attention, his stroke game, or his money, but your brain won’t let you rationalize it as something more.

He’s not actually pressing down that hard on your neck, but you feel a little lightheaded as he uses the other hand to rub circles that he doesn’t have to on your clit. His fingers are so rough you actually don’t like it as much as the feeling of him rubbing against you naturally, but at this moment in time you’re going cross eyed under your closed lids and words won’t form.

“Oh my god, Erik-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

And that you do, feebly wrapping your hands around his tight forearm. You’re upset at the fact that he’s staring you dead in the eyes because you’re about to go straight into that weird ghost-stroke orgasm face and you don’t want him to see. But he will see, just like he’s seen everything about you at this point. He’s seen you at your clumsiest, your most confident, and your lowest in this past month, and you haven’t seen him at all.

In fact, you can’t see a damn thing because his final squeeze on your throat has you cumming so hard you black out. It seems like a long blink, and when you open your eyes Erik’s breathing hard like he’s run a 5k. You look down, not having the strength to lean up all the way, and you see how he’s just shooting all on your stomach in short spurts. All you can do is watch him do it, not quite sure if you dislike his habit of doing so. At least it isn’t your back this time; you don’t want anything in your hair.

He breathes out a, “ _Fuck,”_ before pushing away from you and standing, leaving you with trembling legs and a heaving chest.

The sheets under you are  _really_ wet and for a hot second you panic and lean straight up to inspect in horror. You’ve never done this before, and you can’t imagine why Erik hasn’t said anything to you about it. He’s coming from the bathroom with a washcloth when you assault him with your shaky question.

“Did I piss myself?!”

He gives you a look like you’re a dumbass before reaching down to wipe your stomach off. “Nah.”

“Oh.” And that’s that.

You feel a little awkward coming down off the high, and you pull your clothes back on with a short walk of shame to the bathroom. The mirror reveals your neck is almost as red as your ankle and you can’t wait to try and explain why you’re coming from a man’s house looking like you’ve been in a whole fight. Sydney and Kayla won’t believe you, despite their insistence that you need dick, and this inevitable conversation is already trying your patience.

It’s nearly 10 now, and you’re so exhausted you can’t even react in enough time to step out of Erik’s way as he tries to brush past you. He checks you into the doorframe and for a hurtful second you think he’s done it on purpose but his kiss on your forehead and hand on the small of your back says otherwise.

He must be expecting someone, because he goes down to the front door unprompted, pulling a shirt over his head in the process. You hear the beeping of the alarm system as the front door opens, but your nosy ass can only make it to the second step on account of your sore ankle.

T’Challa’s beautiful voice comes filtering up through the house to you, and you’re smiling like a fangirl again because it’s just so smooth to your ears. However he doesn’t sound too happy, and you think that maybe Erik was actually talking to him earlier on the phone.

The conversation starts out at normal volume, but quickly escalates into a damn shouting match, although Erik is the one doing the most barking. They keep switching languages so much you’re half impressed and half confused at the fact that you’re only getting one half of a conversation.

But it’s when T’Challa says something in a half whisper that apparently ends the conversation, sending Erik back toward the stairs with an agitated snarl. You can’t understand T’Challa’s next exhausted plea, but Erik just keeps on walking.

“Don’t fuckin’ ‘N’Jadaka please’, me nigga!”

You kind of wish you weren’t on the stairs, because when Erik looks up and sees you sitting there you kind of wish he’d never saw you at that cookout because good lord has he never mean mugged you like this before. You hope your body language is screaming that you don’t want to fight, or spar, or put up your dukes or any other similar phrase because you don’t know what to do as he stands frozen at the bottom of the stairs.

Who the actual hell is N’Jadaka? 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kept typing n'jadaka as n'dajaka


	9. NjadAkA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noooo i got writers block and i think this chapter is so wack but here it is (( just a warning for an unsavory abuse implication in the middle of the chapter! it's not elaborated, only implied but i'm warning y'all anyway))

It’s Monday morning and you’re alone. Alone at a coffee shop with your laptop and a large iced mocha feeling as if you need to be doing something productive. So used to the normal schedule you’d waken up at 7 only to realize you’re supposed to be quitting. In fact, it’s the only reason you came down to the coffee joint; to use their wifi for emailing your supervisors because it’s so much faster than yours at home.

Pressing ‘send’ feels so wrong, like a weight has both been lifted off your shoulders and placed on them again at the same time. You’re terrified to tell your parents, hesitant to tell your girls, but all in all you’re glad you get to just breathe out a sigh of relief for once. It allows your mind to focus on other things; like yesterday morning’s awkward situation. To go from being choked during sex to caught eavesdropping all in the same couple hours; it ruined the shit out of your happy post-sex vibe. You were supposed to pass out on Erik’s soft ass bed with those black satin pillowcases, maybe watch some movies while he used your butt as a pillow. But instead, you grabbed your shit and hobbled out into an Uber in silence, not even waiting for an explanation on what you’d heard.

Thinking of the way he looked at you is still giving you chills. And maybe you’re being dramatic, but you swore for a second that he wouldn’t have minded killing you for hearing.

Erik hadn’t said anything about it when you left, only following you outside to watch you get into the white Jeep that came to get you. The trek up your apartment’s stairs was hell on your ankle and you had to explain to your visiting parents why you look so raggedy. Your mother had something to say about you hanging up on her, and your father had something to say about Erik’s flannel shirt tossed on your couch. It could have been yours, but he was adamant that it was a man’s solely because of the size and the smell of the cologne.

Funny, you didn’t think he had a sense of smell on account of all the Joop he wears.

That began another conversation, about you being smart and safe and not letting ‘no-good ass men’ mess with your head. You ignored your mother the entire time, all the while trying to convince her your red neck was the result of a bunch of cheap chokers breaking you out.

Twirling your straw around your drink you sigh, resting your head on your hand. Your brain feels more confused than ever, and you don’t exactly know where to channel this energy. Sydney and Kayla are at work by now, and will be out of commission until around 4, and that makes you feel even more lost. Someone should have taught you how to do nothing.

The thought of texting Erik crosses your mind but you don’t know what to say. It’s a bit early for sex, and it’d be too weird to ask him to hang out like you’re 12. And you actually _do_ want to hang with him today, only to ask for a very important favor, and you’re afraid he’ll get on you for wanting him to do something. Especially after yesterday.

You sit at the table, ice melting in your drink, for an agonizingly long time debating on whether or not to text him. The iced mocha is a lukewarm mess by the time you decide to leave, and you toss it in the trash can angrily as if it’s the reason you’re going through it right now.

The text you send in your car is short and to the point.

 

_Can you do me a favor? If you’re not mad at me_

 

You finally saved his number in your contacts, but you’re not sure if you should leave it as ‘Erik.’ T’Challa definitely called him something else last night , and even though you don’t know how to spell it exactly, the name just looks odd in your contact list. There’s a crack in your screen that perfectly splits ‘Erik’ in half, and you try to remember when you dropped it. Maybe it happened when you rolled your ankle, but you’re annoyed because it’s just something else to pay for.

It’s bright and sunny out, almost no clouds in the sky, and you’re thinking of sitting on the side of your shitty apartment pool. Hopefully you don’t have to look at that dead squirrel that’s been floating in it since last week.

Your cell phone buzzes.

 

_I ain’t mad at you lil bit. And no.  - Erik_

 

You scoff, suddenly very offended, and before you realize what you’re doing you hit the call button. The phone audio transfers to your speakers and each agonizing ring increases your heart rate. But you’re too locked in now, you already called, and it’s really hard to focus on traffic when you feel like you’re having a small meltdown. Erik picks up on the last ring, filling your entire car with his deep voice.

“What.”

He doesn’t sound especially angry, just pissed off like normal, and that makes you feel more comfortable in asking your question. He doesn’t even know what you want him to do, yet he denies as if you’re asking for his house. 

Sighing, you ask, “Are you doing anything right now?”

“Nah,” he says, and his voice is hoarse like he’s been asleep. This is a problem; men always sound extra fine when they wake up. 

“Well,” you say, merging onto the freeway. “Can I come over?”

There’s the sound of rustling on the other side of the phone, probably his sheets, and a distant groan that you can only assume is him leaning up to stretch. Thinking of him in the morning has you agitated, and you start on your way toward his house without waiting on an answer from him. You’re too bored, and he’s the only one outside of your parents that are currently available to give you attention.

Erik tells you no, but you don’t believe that for a second on account of his tone. 

“I don’t care,” you sigh, rubbing at your eyes. “I’m tired, and i’m bored. I’m coming over.”

“Fuck what I say, then.”

“Yes! We’ve been over this, remember?”

He chuckles, and you have to turn the air up a few more notches. Lord have mercy the effect he’s having on you. It’s so bad that you actually hate when you can’t see him, and not even just for sex. So far it’s all you’ve met up to do, and all that you  _ know  _ he wants you for. It’s idiotic to think otherwise, and you’re reminded of something your mom said to you when you were in high school. 

_ Some men will do nothing but have your stomach hurting and that’s not worth it.  _ At the time you thought it was the dumbest shit you’d ever heard, but when she elaborated you supposed it made sense. All she had to do was say  _ Don’t catch feelings for men that won’t do the same! He’ll have you pining and missing him when he’ll probably get bored of you and move on to the next Baddie he sees! _

That doesn’t bother you, or at least that’s what you convince yourself of as you park in his nice driveway and prepare to step out. You had to drive around the gate in his neighborhood, and you scratched an ugly line into the side of your black car in the process. You hurry to his porch just in case a cop tries to take you out for breaking and entering this bougie ass neighborhood, pounding on the dark brown door with your fists.

It slowly comes open, and he appears from the dark of his house with no shirt on and you just want to lose your whole mind because he looks the best he ever has to you. Dreads all over the place from sleep, eyes squinting in the morning light, and sweatpants hanging obscenely low to the point you can definitely see a happy trail and it’s making you crazy. To quell these thoughts, you push past him into his freezing place, pointing to the small Jansport on your back. 

“I hope you don’t care if I use your bathroom to do my makeup,” you say, already on your way to the back hallway. The door shuts behind you with a click, followed by the beeping of Erik reactivating his alarm, and he’s silent as he pads slowly behind you. In the bathroom mirror you chance looking up at him, see how he’s looking at you in that way that you like him to look at you. Like you’re so fine to him, and you turn to look at him with a wry smile. 

Your hair is pulled into a bun, the hairs in the back that fall anyway are left out, and all you’re wearing is an oversized tee with leggings. You’re so used to hiding behind your braids when in his sights like this, and now that they’re taken out, you can’t do anything about how his gaze gets you on fire. 

Still grinning, you open your mouth to quietly give him an ultimatum as he leans closer with his eyes on your lips. “If I beat my face real nice will you please do me a favor?”

He shakes his head and says, “Nah, you ain’t gotta do all that. Just lemme beat somethin’ else up.”

“C’mon, please?” you laugh in between his short kisses. “I’m serious, I really need help.”

“How much you need?”

You hop up to sit on the counter, smiling even wider at the thought of you pulling this off if he agrees to help. “I don’t need money,” you say happily. “I need you to pretend to be my man for like an hour.”

Erik just looks at you, standing straight up like you just told him he smells bad, and you’re as confused as you were the night you went to the club. It’s weird of him to act like this when you  _ know  _ better than to expect otherwise. Sure, he told you he was only fucking with you at the moment, but did he mean that literally or figuratively? You sigh, tilting your head and fixing the best puppydog eyes you can think of. 

“I’m so-”

“So you ain’t got a nigga, then,” he says, shrugging at you in the doorway. You’re so confused, mostly because you’ve only known him a month, and you’re sick of reiterating the same point over and over to him. And so you’re stuck, open mouthed and hands thrown up in the air. 

“I-,” you start, at a loss for words. “I don’t-Erik! Are you-”

He sucks his teeth, agitated. “What you stutterin’ for? Who else you talkin’ to?”

“No one,” you say, finally closing your mouth. “I’m not talking to anybody else.”

“Okay then, lil bit, stop actin’ so damn airheaded.”

You frown, folding your arms because you hate being called any form of the word ‘stupid.’ Sure, you may be a bit airheaded at times, but you have valid reasons for not wanting to yell to the world that you may be in the startings of some kind of,  _ maybe  _ relationship. It’s crazy, and you’re bad at this and he needs to know that. The idea of calling him yours is too wild for you to admit. Even if he calls you his in his presence. 

But what has you screwed up is the fact that most of your interactions happen when you’re naked; what else is there? You don’t know his favorite food, where he’s from specifically, or even how old he is. All you know is that he gets real agitated whenever you imply the two of you are single; and he can’t possibly know how the confusion is adding to your terrible mindscape as of late. 

Erik lifts your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “I got you.”

“Why?” you ask, shrugging. “Why do you keep me around?”

“What you mean, ‘why’?” he’s back to looking at you like you’re crazy. “What’d I tell you about lettin’ shit happen? Why you gotta question every damn thing?”

Now you feel like crying, and isn’t that the quickest mood swing of the century? But you can’t help it, can’t help but think of your ex and how shitty your relationship was and how it ended. How it has you craving attention from men all so you can get an ego trip when they look at your ass or your perfect makeup or your clothes. He made you feel unattractive in all the worst ways and now you’re afraid of getting dragged back into dealing with a man that will inevitably get tired of you and on and on it spins.  

Erik breathes out an annoyed,  _ ‘oh my god’  _ when you start blubbering, turning around in a full circle with his eyes on the ceiling. “You such a damn  _ crybaby.” _

“I know!” you sob, glad you haven’t put on makeup yet. “I know I am I…”  
You trail off, too scared to admit you’re scared. All you were supposed to do was throw it back for him whenever the two of you were horny and that’s it, not bring your extra baggage into it and make this shit complicated. Everything’s weird, everything’s off because you enjoy his abrasive company and you don’t think you should. 

Sighing again, Erik all but grabs you off the countertop and into him, wrapping his big arms around you in probably the most half-hearted yet comfortable hug you’ve ever gotten. But it’s the first hug you’ve gotten from him, and you’ve been craving one so bad that you’re shocked. “Stop fuckin’ cryin’ all the damn time.”

“Okay! Damn!” you say, wiping your eyes. “Stop talking to me like i’m irritating you.”

“You are,” he says, letting you go. “That’s all you damn do.”

If you thought he was serious you’d be hurt, but you ignore him to grab toilet paper to wipe your eyes. 

After a few moments of silence, you dabbing at your puffy eyes and Erik watching you, he nudges you as he exits the bathroom. “I’m goin’ back to sleep. Stay in here cryin’ if you want to.”

“Wait!” You chase after him into the bedroom, still confused and seeking clarification on one crucial thing. You remember how quick he denied you being his girlfriend to T’Challa, and that’s the first thing you ask him about as you watch him climb back into his rumpled sheets. 

He completely gives you his back, rolling over on his stomach and manhandling his pillows until he’s comfortable. You watch him for a second, the only sound in the room the low jingling of a nicktoons commercial and it’s like he never changed the channel since you were here last. If he literally watches nicktoons you would never let him hear the end of it. 

“Erik.” 

He doesn’t answer.

“Erik!”

Absolute silence. Rather than call him a third time you climb into his bed with the most evil look on your face. You absolutely cannot stand being ignored and you’ll be damned if he leaves you hanging when you’re in this current state of mind. And at first, he doesn’t react at all when you sit on his back, eyes shut as if he’s really fallen asleep but you don’t believe that for a second. 

“ _ Erik! _ ” you whine childishly, bouncing a little in frustration. “I need your help  _ please.” _

He’s still ignoring you, or actually asleep, and you silently curse yourself for not wearing those ‘dick appointment’ shorts to get him to pay attention to you. Men are so damn annoying and you don’t know how many times those words have passed through your head since meeting his fine ass. You take the annoying route and call his name over and over and over again, getting absolutely nothing in return and you have to admire his patience. For someone who snaps on you all the time for being slow, he miraculously hasn’t tossed you out the window and changed the locks. Why does he humor your irritating ass? You’re self aware to realize you can be something sometimes, and often it’s on purpose, but you need more clarification before you open up any more to him.

It’s silent in the room again, and you sigh, still sitting on his back with a million thoughts buzzing in your mind like angry bees. It offers you a moment to think of something else to do, and you huff as you take a chance and lean forward so your lips are near his left ear.

“Can you help me, N’Jadaka?” you ask shyly, praying to  _ God  _ he doesn’t flip on you. “Please?”

He shifts a bit, but otherwise stays quiet and you’re ready to just leave but he suddenly calls you irritating again and you know you sort of cleared this hurdle. Rolling off of him, you lay on your back and stare at the ceiling. You can feel his eyes on you and sure enough, when you turn your head you catch him staring. 

“You said I wasn’t your girlfriend,” you say, trying to hide your smile. “How are you mad that I say i’m single?”

You think that maybe you’ve caught him in his flawed logic, that maybe he’s just as bad at this kind of stuff by his refusal to indulge in any of the ‘cheesier’ aspects of dealing with women. He doesn’t want to call you his girlfriend, and you found no issue because everything lead you to believe it’s true, and this is so funny to you you can’t stop giggling. You hold a hand over your mouth as you manage to spit out, “I can’t stand niggas like you, oh my  _ god!” _

He sucks his teeth. “Shut up.”

“Well to be fair..” Your voice gets quiet again; he still makes you so shy sometimes. “You’re not my boyfriend.” 

“Hm.”

After this exchange the two of you continue to reside in early morning silence, only occasionally interrupted by someone’s dog barking next door. This is comfortable, and you’re really tired, and all it takes is the soft sound of Erik breathing to start taking you out of the waking world. It’s weird, you think, having gotten so used to calling him Erik that you keep switching between the two names in your mind. N’Jadaka. You like it, and had only guessed it was his name after hearing it for the first time. It’d have been just your luck to turn out to be some Wakandan curse word or something else embarrassing. 

You look at him, sleeping next to you with that iron grip on his pillow, wondering just who he is, really? He’s wearing that chain still, and when you reach over to touch it he flinches, yet otherwise stays asleep. There’s still so many questions you have about him, and you’re terrified to ask him. Sure, he allowed you to know his real name, but you want to know why he gave you a fake one to begin with. 

It makes your head hurt to think about, so you just go ahead and peel off your warm leggings and try and fall asleep. What most movies like to lie about as far as sleeping damn near on top of people is what you think about as you scoot to the other side of the bed. N’Jadaka ( his name seems too new in your mind), is radiating heat like a damn oven, and you have to basically sleep in the crack of wall in between the bed and the nightstand to get any comfort. His house isn’t freezing this morning, and you only hope you don’t wake up in a few hours so gross and sweaty that you’ll have to go straight home. There’s still the favor you want to ask him, and you have until 5 or so to get it done. 

* * *

 

 

You wake up much later, sluggishly stuck in between that sleepy delirium and the fact that you’re currently being jolted out of a deep sleep by something on your back. You’re at that point where you don’t know if you’re awake or dreaming, so you don’t react just in case N’Jadaka is literally staring at you like you’re crazy.

It’s brighter in the room now and you’re forced to squint painfully the more you wake up. The second you do, you realize that N’Jadaka is definitely using your ass as a pillow, and his head feels like a rock.

“Your head is heavy.”  

He only grunts, flipping through channels, and you let your head hit the bed again as you watch him do so boredly. The pretentious clock on his nightstand reads 1:30 pm and it’s really felt so much longer. There’s something about naps that always seem like they last 6 weeks. 

You lean up slowly, ignoring the irritated sigh that shoots out of N’Jadaka’s mouth, stretching your tired limbs and yawning. He watches you pull your leggings back on, eyes admiring your backside as you jump a bit to pull them up. His fixation on your ass has to be the most hilarious thing about him to you, and you can’t stop yourself from laughing when he palms it with one hand. 

“You’re weird,” you say, shaking your head.

“And this ass is fat,” he says, leaning up himself. 

You look around for your shoes and bag, trying to work out the math as far as how long it’d take to slap on some makeup. There’s more than enough time to hit that errand you’ve been aching to for the past few weeks, and you can only hope that the man following you into his bathroom will be down for it once you tell him. He only watches you, intensely, as you fill in your eyebrows and dab on concealer like he’s so interested yet his face holds that same grumpy expression you’ve seen him wear all the time. Of course, he makes sure to throw in a few jabs on your drugstore makeup choices, mentioning how most of the girl’s he’s hooked up with in town have high end products.

With the most impressive eye roll to date you say, “Sorry I’m such a brokey that can’t drop 800 dollars in Sephora every week.”

He snorts. “I ain’t say the shit was bad, but imma need you to spend more on lipstick because it’s always on yo damn teeth.”

You turn to him, horrified. “You let me walk around with lipstick on my teeth and you ain’t say shit to me about it? Wow, E-”

N’Jadaka only steps closer to you, peering down at you with this look that you can’t read but it stops you from accidentally calling him ‘Erik’ all the same. You don’t understand him, but you make a mental note not to slip up if you can help it. 

Your small makeup bag is on the bathroom sink in front of you, filled with the normal products pilfered from beauty supply stores and Walgreens. Sure, it’s all cheap but it does what it’s supposed to. The lipsticks, however, are one dollar ruby kisses things that  _ do  _ rub off on everything but it’s so damn hard to spend money on makeup. The two that you have gotten, brand new and still in their boxes, are staring at you just itching to be returned. But he’s watching you, leaning against the sink with those eyes all over you and it has you applying a shade of blazing red matte lipstick in the mirror. 

It dries quickly, and you have to admit it just looks good albeit a bit misplaced with your messy bun and leggings combo. You spend an awful amount of time puckering your lips and admiring it in the mirror, unknowingly creating a chemical reaction in the brick wall of a man standing slightly to your right. N’Jadaka grabs your chin so damn fast it scares you, turning your head upwards so he can press his lips to yours. 

You groan into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck in an attempt to lift yourself off the ground to match his height, and his hands predictably grab hold of your butt to help you out. Rather than set you on the counter he only holds you up, forcing you to take the lead for the first time. The favor you wanted to ask him keeps getting pushed to the back of your mind and you wonder if he’s doing this shit on purpose to get out of it. And no matter how much you’re enjoying his tongue exploring your mouth like this, you really can’t afford to keep this going for much longer. You’re too caught up in it, though, too drunk on him to stop yourself from leaving red marks down his neck. His lips are stained red too, but when you look at yourself in the mirror it’s barely moved off your own. Twenty dollars, well spent.

Thanking him for the lipstick, you try and wriggle away less he takes you even farther under with the way he’s staring at you. The both of you are breathing hard, and you’re starting to sweat as you hop up to sit on the sink. Your ankle still hurts, but you lift it up to stop N’Jadaka in his tracks as he moves toward you. 

You smile, saying, “I’m serious, I need you to do me a favor.”

He moves your foot out of the way, coming to a stop in between your legs. 

“Okay,” you start. “I’m trying to go pick up a puppy. But I need you to come with me.”

“For what,” he goes, fingers trying to find the waistband of your leggings. “Since when you need help to go get a dog from somebody raggedy ass backyard.”

“Shut up,” you scoff, slapping his hands away from your waistband. “I need you to come with me because this nigga’s been looking at my butt since I was about 14. I’m not trying to deal with him  _ actually  _ coming on to me now that i’m grown.”

N’Jadaka just pauses, furrowing his eyebrows at you, and you have to agree with his wordless disgust. A ‘friend of the family’ that you always tried to avoid growing up; one that always seemed to like looking at you and complimenting you but it’s something you never told your parents. The only thing on your mind then was to get away from his looks, and the fact that your dad could have snapped him in half never crossed your mind. 

You shrug, tossing the makeup wipe with your red lipstick on it in the trash. N’Jadaka takes another one from you, removing your lip stains off his neck, before sighing and turning toward his bedroom. “How many niggas I gotta kill for you?”

“Please,” you say, knowing he can’t be serious. “None, E-”

He glances back at you before going to his huge walk-in closet. “You know what? Go ‘head and keep slippin’ up, imma make sure you get this shit right tonight.”

“Whatever you say,” you reply, sitting on his bed. 

* * *

You go back to your old neck of the woods in N’Jadaka’s car, spending the whole ride with your head sticking out of the window out of fear. He drives like he’s out of his mind, weaving in and out of traffic whenever he finds an opening in the jams. You really wonder if he’s got some pull with the cops around here because there’s no way they can just allow a black man in a fancy car to drive like a bat out of hell.

It’s when you get to a red light near your parent’s house that you start to get nervous. You definitely haven’t told N’Jadaka the entire story,  _ why  _ you really need his help because you’re selfish and afraid of not getting one of those babies. Your apartment doesn’t allow pits or staffies or any other mixture gene pool and you hope he’d be okay with keeping the dog for a couple months until your lease is up. You’ve been spending the past few weeks stressing yourself out with apartment searches, and you’ve managed to get a few down that fit your criteria. Rent to square footage is so stupid expensive in California, but you suppose that your living alone is a good thing. You don’t  _ need  _ that much space with your limited possessions.

Still, you keep quiet all the way there, not saying a peep as you park in front of the ranch style house that you haven’t seen since you were a teenager. You get a little nervous, feeling that familiar chill creeping up the back of your neck and for a second you regret coming. 

N’Jadaka looks at you when you stop on the grass, watching you be indecisive in your head. You look at him, because you lied on more than one aspect of this upcoming interaction, and you wonder if he realizes it as he jerks his head at you to follow. 

You wrap a hand around his arm, pretending you aren’t cowering behind his wide body when you ring the doorbell. There’s barking coming from inside, big and powerful ones followed by the tiny sounds of puppies and you’re about to cry already. If there was any other option you’d be there, not here, but you know this man will give you one for free. A dog without the baggage of a previous, abusive relationship is one you want. Maybe it’s selfish, but you just can’t handle a shelter dog right now. You’re just as fragile.

The door opens and that sunglasses indoors wearing freak from your childhood makes his grand reappearance. He’s about your parents’ age, a few years older than your father, and  you remember the first time you met him. You and Kayla were watching Flavor of Love in your living room, arguing over if either one of you would ever be on a VH1 reality show. There were cans of coke and bags of chips all over the damn place, and the two of you were basically shoved into the living room to keep out of the way of the grown folks in the basement. All they ever did was drink and listen to oldies and talk loud as hell, every Saturday on the damn dot, and the only good thing to come out of it was the food. 

You only knew him as a ‘friend’ of the family, had forgotten his name the second you heard it,  but you couldn’t help but feel his steely eyes on you and Kayla in your athletic shorts. When you turned around you caught him looking at you, and you didn’t say anything because the worst part about having a ‘nice’ butt is that you peaked when you were 13 and had to deal with stares from ugly ass men pretending that you weren’t a child. You can’t count how many guys would ride down the street and slow down when they got to you, winding down the window and shouting questions about how old you were. It was something you were used to, you shouldn’t have been, but you were. And it wasn’t his first time coming around.

And here he is again, smiling at you as he steps aside to let you in. You ignore his greeting, giving a weak smile in return as he remarks on how long its been. 

“Last time I saw you, it was-”

“A long time ago,” you say, looking around his house and nodding. “Can I see them?”

He seems taken aback at your flippant tone, trying and failing to pretend that he isn’t intimidated by the man on your arm’s presence. The two of you follow him into the backyard,  actively littered with puppy pads and old lawn equipment, and you’re too distracted by the gross feeling in your stomach to even notice the six black puppies running toward you. Their parents are already on you, sniffing your hands and your feet and wagging their tails and it reminds you exactly why you came. 

You let go of N’Jadaka’s arm and bend down, already feeling the happy tears coming because of all the puppies assaulting you with happy barks. They all have different colored collars on, probably already claimed by their future owners, and you have to turn toward the man with a nervous question. 

“Wait,” you start. “They’re all adopted already?”

“Well,” he goes. “They were, but one of the people that was supposed to get Gold down there had some problem with his money so-”

“So I can have-” you pause to lift Gold up a bit. “Him?”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. You can get the family and friends discount.” Then he winks at you, laughing that gravely laugh of his before putting a hand on your shoulder. You expect him to take his hand back but he’s so preoccupied with doing that uncomfortable shoulder rub as he remarks on how beautiful you’ve gotten over the years. 

“I was talkin’ to your Moms the other day, she told me you were doing pretty well! I hate that I missed the cookout I was hoping to catch y’all out there!”

You look to N’Jadaka, seeing how he’s staring so hard at this family ‘friend’ and you wonder how he hasn’t felt the burning on the back of his head yet. You sigh, hoisting the puppy higher into your arms before cutting the tension with your words.

“Uh, Mr. Henry,” you say, stepping away. “This is Erik.”

It slipped out, but you make the quick assumption that you should probably call him ‘Erik’ when you’re around other people. His name seems to be an odd secret, but you don’t have any interest in prying. It’s clearly private for a reason. 

This introduction makes old Mr.Henry actually look at N’Jadaka’s eyes and he makes up some excuse about getting adoption papers to scurry back into the house. You let out a sigh and shake your head, idly rubbing Gold’s back as he lays lax in your arms. The other puppies are back to running around and entertaining themselves, sometimes chasing their mom around to try and get milk from her despite the fact they’ve long since been weaned. 

N’Jadaka taps your side and you turn back around, wondering if he’s been perceptive enough to catch either of your lies. He leans down toward you, using one hand to block Gold from trying to lick him.

“What that nigga do to you, _____.”

“Nothing,” you say, shrugging. “He didn’t do anything but look at me all the time.”

“Lie to me again.”

“I’m not lying!” you all but shriek, hushing yourself. “I’m only here for this puppy, okay? Let’s just get the papers and shit and go. Please?”

You add another please, yanking his shirt, because you just want this to be over with and it definitely won’t be if N’Jadaka decides to pop every man that’s wronged you. This is a level of possessiveness that you really wonder about; how he’s latched on to you and is ready to murk dudes for you despite only knowing you a month. 

He still looks unconvinced, so you give him a hesitant peck on the lips. “Please don’t kill anybody for me.”

“Hm.”

You laugh at his expression, repeating your request. “I’m dead fuckin’ serious. You can dot my ex’s eye if you want to, though.”

Mr.Henry comes back then, right as you kiss N’Jadaka again with another laugh, handing you a manila envelope with what you can assume is the necessary paperwork. You’re surprised at how thorough this is, because usually when someone had puppies in the neighborhood you just took one or slipped them a few hundreds and went. Now you have to listen to him talk about them already being vaccinated and spayed and neutered and all healed up and happy. The entire time you listen, N’Jadaka stands behind you with his hands on your hips, and you can tell he’s staring Mr.Henry dead in his eyes. 

The entire interaction takes way longer than you wanted to, and by the time you’re saying your insincere goodbye your heart is beating a million miles a minute. You slide into the passenger’s seat of N’Jadaka’s car, holding your new dog close to your chest. You still haven’t asked if he’d keep him for you until you found a place, and the longer you wait the more nervous you get. If push comes to shove you could always leave him with your parents temporarily but the idea of parting even for a second makes you want to cry.

You wonder, briefly, where this infatuation with cute animals came from. 

“I think i’m gonna name him, King,” you say quietly, admiring his big floppy ears. His fur is jet black and you’re sure if his ears were different he’d look just like a panther cub. But you’d sooner stab someone over ear cropping, and you aren’t going to touch them. 

“Wack ass name,” is N’Jadaka’s response, and you flip him off in return. 

“Excuse me, this is my child, he’ll have whatever name I want him to.”

“You gon’ turn a pit into a damn shih tzu.”

You roll your eyes and say, “And what’s wrong with that? I don’t want a neglected hood dog that gets out and eats some old lady. I’m trying to stop the stigma with pit bulls.”

He looks at you, one eyebrow raised, before turning onto the main street. “That ‘stigma’ ain’t disappearing no matter what, baby, you can’t change folks’ minds.”

You suppose he’s right, and you hum as you listen to him go on and on as he relates this same subject to the black man in america; that they’re this nation’s ‘pit bulls.’ You agree with every thing he’s saying, but the more you leave him to talk the more his argument starts to skew into that of your typical reactionary activist and you have to clear your throat to keep him from going deeper into this angry spiral. You’re not even going to say anything, just focusing all your attention on the puppy in your lap. 

King seems pretty chill, only moving in your lap when the car turns too roughly or to look out of the window. You’re in love already, and can’t wait to shower him in shit from the pet store in the same way you did with Zeus. 

You enjoy this silence with no loud music bumping in his car, but then a white guy with a ponytail cuts him off and you’re afraid he’s going to start foaming at the mouth. 

* * *

 

 

Deep in text conversation with your girls, you keep your eyes on the kennel in the far corner of N’Jadaka’s bedroom with a smile. You can’t believe you have another puppy to keep you company, even  _ if  _ your apartment would evict you the second they found out. The two of you had been in Petco for what felt like 45 minutes; you gushing over stuff and N’Jadaka rolling his eyes and scoffing. But at the end of the day he paid for everything and agreed with indifference when you said you needed King to stay with him until you got a new place. You still don’t know why he does so much stuff for you, but you decide to push the question away and enjoy this while it lasts. 

You’re currently laying in bed, lazily typing away at your cell phone as you try and wonder how you’ll get rid of your mattress at home when you move. It’s really old, and it creaks whenever you move it, while N’Jadaka’s bed feels like it’s made of that tempur pedic stuff. It’s like foam underneath you, each imprint you make with your fists lasting a few seconds before reforming. 

You’ve been alone in here for a couple hours, thanking your past self for thinking to throw a small change of clothes in your backpack before coming over this morning. The leggings have definitely been replaced by what your friends call your dick appointment shorts. They’re red, and you can see how shapely they make your butt in the mirror. You’re just staring at your own ass and that’s kind of funny to you, but you’ve seen countless relatable tweets online about women just staring at their boobs in the mirror so you know you’re not weird for it. 

Kayla snaps you out of it with her text.

_ Well i’m not working tomorrow _____so imma come over - Kay _

_ I’m not at home tho - You _

_ Oh i’m sorry, _____, call me when you get done gettin dicked ALL the way down, sis - Kay _

You roll your eyes and send an ‘okay,’ just as the sound of the kennel bars rattling catches your attention. You hop up, shocked and expecting to see King caught in between the door and the rest of the cage but you don’t see a cage at all. Instead you see N’Jadaka shutting the door to his bedroom as he peels his denim jacket off. He’d been gone since you got back, and you hadn’t heard him come in. The lack of situational awareness has you thinking about the small handgun he made you take home, and it’s sitting in the bottom drawer of your nightstand, untouched. God, do you hate guns. But more importantly..

“Nigga, did you just put my dog in the hallway?”

“ _ My  _ hallway,” he shoots, moving closer to you. “In  _ my  _ house. I’m the one that’s gotta clean up shit and piss because you too scared to keep it in  _ yo  _ apartment.”

Leaning up, you fold your arms and cock an eyebrow up. “You’re not doing me any favors. I didn’t make you say ‘yes.’”

“Nah,” he says, closing the distance between the two of you. “This sexy ass body did.”

You roll your eyes at his words, expecting the loud smack of his hand connecting to your ass that comes after. The man has an obsession. After a few times with him in bed you’ve come to realize your backside isn’t the only part of you he likes. He always pays so much extra attention to your lips, and you guess that’s why he kisses you like a lover every chance he gets. 

He asks you if you’re hungry as he’s just blatantly groping you, and when you give him a look that screams ‘obviously’ he doesn't respond. Truthfully, you want him to take you out somewhere, to some expensive restaurant or something. It’s not a thing you  _ expect  _ per se, but if he wants you to let him spend money on you the least he could do is get you a fat steak or something. You can’t remember the last time you had a steak that didn’t make you feel like you ate a cardboard box. (Your parents mean well but steak just isn’t their forte).

“I want a steak,” you say, closing your eyes at the feeling of his neck kisses. 

“You gon get this dick.”

“Can’t eat that, can I?”

N’Jadaka snorts. “I gotta teach you how to give head without chokin’ to death.”

You push away from him, moving to sit in the center of the bed with your legs folded. He keeps proving your internal point about the only thing you have in common being sex, and you really want to know if he’d keep you around otherwise. So you fold your arms too, looking at the man in front of you expectantly as he stares at you, confused. 

He goes, “What,” and you shrug. 

“I need to know if you only really need what’s between my legs.”

A full ten seconds passes in silence before N’Jadaka rolls his eyes at you. You expect this response but you stay quiet all the same. “If you don’t quit with that insecure shit.”

“Make me quit,” you say, pointing your nose in the air childishly. “I want to go on a date tonight. I want a  _ fat  _ steak.”

Just to be safe you glance down at your cellphone for the time; 4:32 PM. It’ll be dinner time soon, and you were dead serious about that steak. And you assume he knows how serious about it you are because he shakes his head with a smirk, looking at the wall rather than at you.

After a while he gestures to your purple ankle. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere else today. I damn near had to carry you in that shit-smellin’ ass store.”

“It smelled like fish food,” you correct, smiling. “And fair point. You got me in 3-4 more weeks, though, right?”

He’s fast, and he’s back on you, getting you to lay back with a surprised squeak. 

“Imma postmate that shit,” he says. “Now shut up and take this dick.”

“Wow, bars,” you say, and you’re not able to hold in your laughter at your own stupid joke. You don’t know  _ why  _ it’s so funny to you but it is and you’re absolutely screaming with laughter. It feels good to laugh, and maybe this is your body’s way of expelling all the bullshit you’ve been feeling the past few weeks. You quit your job, you’re free from the stress of it for a little while, and the monotony of your life is being interrupted for once. You’re glad it’s laughter rather than tears, but either way N’Jadaka is still looking at you like you’re crazy.

So you stop, covering your mouth with one hand and feeling very embarrassed.

“So damn goofy,” he says, shaking his head at you. It sounds affectionate and that makes you feel funny, but before you can even let it sink in your shorts are already down and he’s on you like he’s starved for you.

He moves so quickly sometimes, or maybe you’re slow on the draw, but either way you can’t complain as you grab hold of his dreads with one hand and let your head fall back on your shoulders. He’s too good at this, and you kind of hate it because it has you wore out by the time he’s getting ready to go in on you. You really can’t hang, and you secretly worry he’ll get tired of you getting exhausted so fast. 

And just as you predict, by the time your tee is around your neck and your leg is thrown over the other in that position you hate, you feel like you’ve run a marathon. You’ve already called him ‘Erik’ three times on accident, and each time he’s smacked your thighs so hard they stung. You can’t help but slip up, a two syllable name that you’ve been using for damn near a month is easier to get out than one with four. That’s just how it is, and when you tell him that he only goes in harder. At first. Then he pulls out.

You look up at him through eyes blurry with tears, confused but happy that he’s letting you uncross your legs. He’s sweating a bit, and it’s activated his cologne to the point you’re drunk on the smell of him. You hope you smell as intoxicating; hope you  _ look  _ as alluring as he does as he sits on the bed next to you. He shifts a bit to get more comfortable, leaning his back against the black headboard and for a second you just watch him. Messy hair, faint sheen of sweat on his brown skin and the gold chain on that heaving chest; he’s never looked so beautiful. 

All he has to say is  _ c’mere  _ and you’re dragging yourself over to him, careful not to disturb your swollen ankle any more than you already have today. You still hate this position, and no amount of lust is going to make you actually like riding him. It’s just too much effort and you’re lazy. It’s especially annoying when the person you’re riding is reaching over to his nightstand drawer and pulling out a pre-rolled blunt. 

You huff in annoyance because you don’t want his attention on anything but you. He’d been calling you so many sweet names in that voice of his, and you studied his full lips like they were spitting the secrets to the universe each time. And now, they’re wrapped around a blunt rather than any part of you and you selfishly hate that. 

He tells you to ride him in that flippant tone of his, taking a pull and staring you dead in the eyes as he does so. Truthfully, you don’t want to smoke so you don’t care if he offers it to you, but it’s funny that he doesn’t offer it to you. 

You sigh as you slide down on him, leaning forward to rest your body against his as to avoid his eyes.

“Lil bit,” he says. 

“Hm?” you’re too self conscious to pull away and look at him. And tired. 

“Look at me.”

You do, seeing how half lidded his eyes are and the way air is shooting from his nose as you move on him. His lips part to let smoke pass through and you take that opportunity to go in for a kiss. It’s messy, but you feel mad with lust when he uses his unoccupied hand to guide you by the hips. 

“Why you move so damn slow?” he asks in between kisses, but he doesn’t otherwise make you go faster until he takes a few more long pulls. The blunt goes in the ashtray and his other hand grabs hold of your hips. You hope your body never gets bored of feeling this way, because each time your bodies are connected it’s like it gets even better. A part of you always wondered morbidly if good sex was like heroin. Sure, that first time is like you’re hugging God but what about every other time after that? N’Jadaka’s been subverting that rule every time he’s gotten you naked, but it’s a worry you have as you grab hold to his shoulders like you’ll fly away if you don’t. 

Your ears are ringing hard, and you miss whatever he says to you as you hiss, “ _ Shit.”  _ under your breath. He has you crying again, and you can’t tell if it’s just that good or you’re just a huge crybaby or both, but either way you keep your eyes screwed shut less you start sobbing like the first time.

“Fuckin’ fine ass,” shoots out of his mouth like a vicious insult and you bite your lip to keep from giggling at his tone of voice. From your limited experience this means you’re doing something right, or that he’s close, and you wonder if he’s going to throw you off him to shoot on your stomach like last time. You’re on birth control and he knows that, and if he’s not afraid to raw you he shouldn’t be afraid to accidentally knock you up.

Sure, you got tested back after your ex cheated and you’re clean. You assume the man currently cussing your pussy out for being tight is also even though your paranoid thoughts are starting to creep back up in your brain. It’s starting to get too much, and you keep bouncing between thinking about STDs and the intense sensation of having your guts rearranged. He’s probably ruined you for other men and that makes you upset.

You scream his name, albeit the wrong one, and predictably you get another hard smack for it. You’ve never been spanked in your damn life and the fact that this is the first time is kind of funny to you. Your butt stings, though, so that’s the only downside. 

“I’m sorry, E- _ fuck!”  _ you have to laugh at yourself, but it quickly turns into a whimper when he smacks you on the ass again. “It’s not my fault you have 87 names!”

He looks at you, that look that makes you want to cower, before saying, “I only got one, baby, what is it.”

Again with the questions that lack any kind of upward inflection, you find it kind of funny. You don’t even answer him, suddenly too self-conscious to say his name again. The first time didn’t count; it was quiet and it was to get something out of it, but this time you feel exposed. It’s his damn eyes. 

“What’s my name,” he says intently, eyes still frozen on your own. He’s holding you down on him with a strong grip, like you’re not allowed to move until you say it. 

“I know your name,” you say, avoiding his gaze. “I just keep slip-”

He only repeats himself, fingers digging into your sides till it hurts, but you don’t recoil. If anything, you love it, and you hate that you do. He’s really turning you into a little freak but you push the possible Freudian implications to the back of your mind. 

The both of you are at a standstill, him keeping you from moving on him and you sitting on top of him with a lame look on your face because you’re being put on the spot. He seems perfectly fine to be sitting there, looking at you expectantly as he leans against the headboard. And you were so close, too…

“Okay, fine, damn!” you go, throwing your hands in the air. “You are so childish.”

He’s still looking at you, head tilting forward and you need to tell him to stop sizing you up like one of his hits or whatever the hell he does when he’s not around. 

Despite the fact that you haven’t answered him yet, he snorts and starts moving you up and down on him. You wince and he switches it up, back and forth like you told him the last time the two of you were like this and it’s great that he remembered because you honestly wouldn’t have been able to say anything again. The way he’s looking at you still has you nervous as hell to speak.

“So you not gon’ answer me?” he suddenly asks, getting even rougher as he thrusts up into you. 

“Why do you want me to-” you’re cut off by a particularly rough impact that silences you almost immediately and you’re left to stare at him with your mouth wide open  in shock. 

“When I tell you to do somethin’,  _ I mean that shit.”  _

And just like that you’re ready to lose your ever-loving mind over him and this entire situation. He’s still looking at you with fire in his eyes and you’re looking at him like you’re hypnotized. The more rational parts of your brain are screaming at you that you’re too far gone, and that you should’ve left when you had the chance because now you don’t think you’re capable of doing such a thing. You’ve reached the highest of highs and you’d write his name in Sharpie on your forehead if he wanted.

Or maybe not, but you can’t lie and say the thought doesn’t cross your cloudy mind when he hitches you up and gets you on your back again without missing a beat. You’re covering your face with your hands, utterly unable to form a complete thought let alone human language and much to your dismay he asks you again. “What the fuck is my name.”

It takes you a second to gather the will to speak because he just will not let up on you. “Holy fucking  _ SHIT, N’Jadaka!” _

“What you say?” And of course he’s going to be an asshole about it, making you say it over and over and that annoys the living hell out of you. “I ain’t hear you, baby, speak up.”

“Oh my god,” you sigh, reaching out to put your hands on his chest. Your nails really need to be filled in, now that you’re looking at them. He doesn’t even let you answer, slapping your hands off him so he can lean down and press his chest to yours.  _ This  _ is your favorite position, it feels so intimate and you don’t feel as vulnerable when you get to look at the ceiling rather than his eyes. He asks you over and over again what his name is, and each time you answer it starts to sound less and less like a word and more like meaningless noise. He tells you again that you’re his and his only in between his grunting and groaning and all you can do is agree with tears in your eyes. 

You can’t help but think of your ex again when you’ve been reduced to a sweaty, breathless mess on the bed sheets, bitterly laying your head against the chest of the man under you. All you ever do is think of him; it’s so hard to forget that asshole of an ex-boyfriend because it’s so easy to compare him to the  _ other  _ kind of asshole that N’Jadaka is. You still think he’s kind of a fuckboy, but a tolerable one, and you decide to go ahead and text Kayla that you’re down to hang out in the morning. There are some things that can only be discussed with friends.

Still trying to catch your breath, you look over at the nightstand at the ashtray. The half smoked blunt is sitting there and you look up to see that N’Jadaka is staring at you. You wonder how long he’s been doing it, and  _ why  _ he does it so much, but it’s not like he’d give you an honest answer if you asked. 

“What are you looking at?” you ask, frowning. 

“I’m lookin’ at you,” is his obvious reply. “You better be on the pill.”

Right. You roll your eyes, letting your head fall back on his chest with a huff. He’s clearly more of a hoe than you’ve ever been, and you don’t know how many times you’ve clarified that you are indeed on birth control. Truthfully, you’ve been on it since you were a teenager to control your downright excruciating period cramps. They used to have you missing days of school they were so bad. 

You say, “I didn’t make you cum in me. Don’t act like I forced you.”

He scoffs, reaching for the ashtray and a lighter. “Yeah right. You was beggin’ for it.”

Another irritated sigh escapes your lips as you mumble a quiet, “Whatever you say, N’Jadaka.”

A few seconds pass, and you let your eyes close as you think of what sides you want with this hypothetical postmated steak because you’re getting up and leaving if he doesn’t deliver on it. 

“You say that shit so dumb,” he suddenly says, spooking you into opening your eyes again. “ _ N’jadAkA.  _ What the fuck. _ ” _

He starts laughing at you, deep rumbling in his chest and even though he’s making fun of your lame pronunciation you can’t help but start cracking up too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no offense but he's about to royally piss ha off next chapter


	10. that first red flag

You close your eyes and let the water pour over you in probably the best shower  you’ve ever been in. It’s spacious and  _ clean,  _ with sleek silver faucets and marbled tile on the walls and a bar on the side for what you don’t know. It’s sturdy and bolted to the wall and you recoil from touching it because who knows how many other girls have been propped up against it. There’s a small window near the top, letting in a nice amount of sunlight inside and you don’t know how long you can admire the modern architecture in N’Jadaka’s house. It’s just so impressive, even if you’ve only seen the living room and his bedroom outside of the bath.

At first you didn’t want to get your hair wet but you quickly said ‘fuck it’ and let it go. You found an uncomfortable amount of leftover hair products and toiletries from other hookups in his bathroom, and when you asked about it he only shrugged and said he keeps meaning to throw them out. But that was an hour ago, right before you asked him to get you something to wear since he was going near your apartment complex. You haven’t heard him come back, and you can only imagine what he’s going to end up bringing you. 

The music coming through your cellphone stops momentarily as someone calls you, and you almost kill yourself trying to get out and see who it is. 

“Hey,” you say, wrapping a towel around your body. 

Kayla makes a teasing noise from the other end. “You done gettin’ your daily dose of dick today?”

“Shut up,” you laugh, pulling your damp hair back with a scrunchie. “I’m getting out the shower now so gimme like half an hour. You can come pick me up.”

“Mmkay.” Kayla pauses for a bit, you can hear her music in the background. “So Mr.Man’s gonna be okay with me rollin’ up to his crib to pick you up?”

“I don’t care if he is or not,” you go, frowning. “It’s not like I’m inviting you into a house that isn’t mine. You’re picking me up at the end of the driveway.”

Still, now that she’s expressed skepticism you feel like you should ask just in case. The problem with a man so capricious is that you constantly feel like you’re walking on eggshells when it comes to asking questions. That shouldn’t be the case, but you get too distracted with changing King’s puppy pad to keep dwelling on it. He’s too afraid to go down the stairs so you have to carry him with one arm, smiling as he looks around lazily. So far, King is the direct opposite of Zeus’ wild ass, and you can’t wait to introduce them. 

You pad into the kitchen silently, bending down in front of the island to grab the water dish. Despite N’Jadaka’s constant scoffing when you were in the pet store, he kept calling you cheap whenever you picked out plastic dog dishes. Instead he made you get the stainless steel heavy ass weapons that you need both hands to handle. You’re forced to use a glass to transfer water from the sink to the bowl, because if you slipped up and dropped it on your foot you’d have to add fracture to the list.

It’s when you’re pouring puppy chow into the other dish that you hear voices, and when you stand up you just start smiling all goofy and wide. “Good morning, T’Challa.”

He returns the smile and you swoon. “Good morning to you as well, beautiful.”

You’d never get tired of hearing this man’s accent, or the formal way he speaks, and you can’t believe how lucky you are to actually be standing this close to him without miles of security between you. The fact that you managed to accidentally stumble into the bed of the cousin of the literal Black Panther still feels like a wild fever dream, and you’re half convinced you’re going to wake up any moment now, alone in your bed.

You’re a bit embarrassed of the fact that you’re standing in front of him in nothing but a bath towel, so you wrench it tighter to yourself with a nervous glance down to the black puppy that’s curious about the new person standing in the room. King hops up on two feet to place his paws on one of T’Challa’s pant legs, his tail wagging so hard it’s become a blurry black line. You apologize, grabbing him, but he’s too hype in your arms.

T’Challa waves your apology away and reaches over to scratch behind King’s floppy ears. The two of you begin to chat about pets idly, laughing about different dog breeds and you almost forget about your plans today until a bag lands roughly next to you on the island’s countertop.

“Got your clothes, shorty.”

You look over to N’Jadaka, scowling because he’s out of his mind if he thinks he can throw things in your direction, even if he has some weird complex with his cousin. After you let King back down to finish eating, T’Challa suddenly puts a hand on your shoulder to turn you toward him. You think nothing of it when he leans closer to say something in your ear, trying to pinpoint what kind of cologne he’s wearing. It smells earthy and organic, and it reminds you of trees. Or a forest. It’s great.

“Tell the truth, _____, is he holding you hostage in this house?” It comes out teasing, like it’s not a real question, and you have to shake your head and playfully hit his arm as you turn away.

“I can take care of myself, your Majesty,” you say, smiling. “But thank you for the concern.”

T’Challa raises both eyebrows, nodding in understanding with that teasing smile still on his face. He looks at N’Jadaka, and the two of them share a look that you can’t quite decipher. One one end, T’Challa seems amused, and on the the other N’Jadaka looks like he’s about to pounce. Whatever went on between them is still here, and the air is beginning to fizzle with electricity; you can feel the tension.

Wordlessly, you grab the paper bag off the countertop and inch your way past and toward the steps. You can feel N’Jadaka coming before he gets to you, and you whirl around to face him before he interacts. His nostrils are flared as he pulls you upstairs by the towel, and you half stumble after him on account of your ankle. 

You’re all but tossed on the bed and you look at him, shocked. “What the fuck?!”

“If you gon flirt with his ass you could at least make sure I ain’t fuckin’ standin’ there.”

You roll your eyes. “I wasn’t flirting with him. I was talking to him. You got a lot of nerve calling  _ me  _ insecure.”

Jealousy is definitely your least favorite quality in a man, and you make sure to let him know with your guarded body language that he’s pissing you off. You don’t know what’s going on but you aren’t a fan and you tell him that. It’s all you tell him before grabbing your bag and limping to the bathroom. You predicted hours ago that he’d get you a dumb outfit but to your surprise it’s decent, complete with a bunch of your jewelry tossed into the bag. It’s a pair of your denim cutoffs and a bandeau; you had a feeling he loved that outfit on you. What guy wouldn’t? You’re basically naked.

Still, you get dressed in annoyed silence, texting Kayla the name of the subdivision as a compromise to actually trying to find out the address. You’re so agitated it takes you several tries to get your eyeliner in a straight line and by the time you’re done brushing your hair down your phone buzzes to let you know Kayla is here. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror of the master bathroom, running your hands down your curls that you’ve brushed into waves, weighed down with product. In your honest opinion, you look great, and you hum in satisfaction as you grab your purse and head downstairs. Your sore ankle is wrapped in bandages and a compression sock, and it actually feels better in your Docs than in the gym shoes you were wearing yesterday.

King is in the middle of the living room floor when you come down, gnawing on a stuffed bear and paying you absolutely no mind. T’Challa is nowhere to be found, and if it weren’t for the obscene ass video playing on the tv you’d think N’Jadaka had left as well. The ass of the stripper on the screen has you staring in open-mouthed shock, and she might as well not even be wearing the wire-thin thong it’s so far up there. 

“The hell are you watching?” you scoff, staring at the back of his head as he sits on the couch. He’s slouched, legs wide open, and he gives you a side glance when you sit on the back of the couch. It looks like some weird voyeuristic hood documentary of underground strip clubs, much like the ones from the 90s you found in your Dad’s old belongings one time. You remember innocently telling your mom and you swore the whole neighborhood could hear your poor father being cussed out.  _ Hood Babes Double Down In Club Ecstasy 2000  _ or some shit.

Some man throwing wrinkled ones on a stripper suddenly decides to whip his entire dick out and she spins around and quickly proves she doesn’t, nor had she ever, have a gag reflex. You watch, morbidly amazed, almost hypnotized before smacking the bored looking man below you on the shoulder. 

“Gross!” you say, eyes still glued to the screen. 

He snorts, giving you another side eyed look. “It wasn’t ‘gross’ when you was chokin’ on my shit the other night, though.”

“That was different,” you say defensively, a bit embarrassed at the way you retched when he tried to ‘guide’ you by the back of the head. “This kinda stuff always reeks of exploitation and STDs. What kind of stripper lets randoms raw her at work?”

“Don’t you got somewhere to be?” he suddenly asks you, turning the volume up. The speakers on his home entertainment system are so good it almost sounds like you’re in the dark strip club onscreen. You momentarily forget all about Kayla until her emoji-laden text message shocks your eyes away from the debauchery taking place on the tv.

You make sure to tell King goodbye and no one else on your way out the door and into the warm early afternoon. Your car is still sitting in N’Jadaka’s driveway, the scratch in the side beaming in the sunlight and you scowl. All he had to do was answer his damn phone and give you the keypad code.

Kayla is waiting for you slightly around the corner, and you can hear her loudly tell you to hurry up over her music. The sight of her makes you smile; you definitely need time with your friends. The two of you could fill Sydney in later tonight. 

You slide into Kayla’s truck and she’s already on you, squealing. 

“Okay, sis, I see you! He got money, huh.”

“Well,” you go, buckling your seatbelt. “He’s ‘royalty’, remember?”

She looks at you, seemingly confused at your tone, as she pulls out and around the cul-de-sac and back toward the entrance. You wonder how she got in anyways, and she remarks that she piggybacked off someone that came in before her. She scoffs, “I hate those bougie ass neighborhood gates. They can’t keep nobody out.”

You agree, laughing, and the two of you are off. 

* * *

At a restaurant downtown you sigh over your fruity cocktail. Since it’s a weekday, you and Kayla find it appropriate to be in this usually crowded place, seated out on the rooftop. It’s a great bar, with even greater food, when you can get in. There’s literally no point in trying to come on the weekend unless you’re a masochist who enjoys standing in lines and being pushed around. 

You’re munching on a buttered up sweet roll, staring at the menu with your eyebrows furrowed when Kayla suddenly kicks you under the table. You flinch, about to kick her back with your boots, until you see the shit eating grin on her face. 

“What?” 

She nods to something behind you and you offer a quick glance, seeing someone that couldn’t be more obvious in the way that they’re checking you out if they tried. It’s some older man, salt and pepper beard like in those commercials, and you offer a small smile before returning your attention back to the lunch menu. 

Kayla snickers, sipping her drink before saying, “You always used to pull niggas, though. I think they’re attracted to that perceived innocence shit.”

“‘Perceived innocence,’” you repeat slowly, eyes darting back and forth between the margherita pizza and the steak tacos. “Meaning…”

“I think it’s your face or something. And how goofy you are. Some guys like that transparent stuff. In fact, me and Sydney were talkin’ about this shit a few days ago! You always used to attract hood niggas or older guys no in-between. Even when we were in high school.”

You scoff, because she’s right, and you never paid anyone any attention. Not until your ex at least. Truthfully, men made you sick for the longest time, having been looked at the way you were looked at as a preteen made you unwilling to entertain guys in any facet. Not the ones who sent you a couple valentines here or there in school, or the one who asked you to prom. Not even in college, until it all seemed to catch up to you at once and your ex happened. And when he happened, he ruined you. 

You’re glad when Kayla switches the topic of conversation to you and ‘Erik,’ and you’re happy to start scowling once she asks. 

“So are y’all together, together?” she asks, swirling her drink around with a straw. 

You shrug and reply, “Shit, I don’t know. I guess. We have yet to literally do anything but sleep together so I’ll get back to you once I figure it out.”

She pats the side of her head, careful not to disturb her sleek ponytail, before getting a serious look on her face. You know this face. “You been thinkin’ about Devon, though?”

Hearing his name outloud nearly makes you vomit, and you momentarily pause to give your order to the waitress. Those steak tacos are about to be devoured in half a second. She takes your menus and smiles, scurrying back inside to the kitchens, leaving you to confront this elephant in the room with Kayla. 

You sigh, sipping your drink that’s too sweet, before putting your forehead in your hands. 

“He’s all I think about when I’m with Erik,” you say, closing your eyes. “I’m constantly thinking about his conniving, lying, bitch ass and comparing him and shit and it’s driving me crazy! I literally cannot deal with a man without thinking about that asshole, Kay, it’s making me lose it.”

“You need to stop letting him have control over you, sis.”

Humming, you turn to stare over the balcony and onto the city below, watching people cross the street like busybodies for a few minutes. Kayla waits patiently the whole time, and when you come back to earth, raises her eyebrows intently.

“It’s really fucked up,” you start, trying not to get emotional. “He barely even hugged me or kissed me or did any small shit like that. You know how ugly that shit made me feel? How did I let him turn me into a meek ass, attention starved-”

“Nobody  _ lets  _ niggas make them feel like that,” Kayla goes, shaking her head. “But enough about him; I wanna hear details about that fine piece of ass you bagged at the barbecue.”

She’s making that dumb face at you, wiggling her eyebrows and you almost choke on your drink. It dribbles down your chin and you grab a bunch of napkins to dab it away. You  _ really  _ must have been walking around here pitiful if your girls are this happy and invested in your sex life. 

Kayla asks, “You get any this morning when you was ignoring me?”

“No,” you say, sticking your tongue out. “Not exactly.”

“What you mean, ‘not exactly’?!”

You don’t think that the lazy quickie from this morning counts as anything super scandalous, but the feelings of him entering you from behind you as you lay on your side was straight out of a cheesy smut novel. It was great despite your self consciousness about not smelling too fresh in the morning, but you don’t feel like sharing it necessarily. 

She’s still trying to pry details out of you by the time the food comes and you finally cave, leaving out the more unsavory aspects of his personality. His emotional unavailability seems like a precursor to his own inner demons and thinking of it too much just makes you confused and tired. You don’t know what to do, because that’s what you want more than anything, just for him to validate you in more ways than sexually. 

Or is ‘validation’ the wrong term? You frown over your food, chewing thoughtfully as Kayla goes on about a new guy she met at work. You know your friends are more perceptive and no-nonsense when it comes to men, so you aren’t anything but happy as she describes him to you. In fact, being out in the fresh air and just letting loose and talking makes you extremely happy. 

It’s so refreshing, and by the time you’re being dropped off back at N’Jadaka’s house you’re buzzing and happy. Kayla lets you out in front of the gate, having no one to tailgate this time, and you reach over to hug her across the seat before grabbing your bags and heading out. She peer pressured you into buying a cute black coach purse, and you fully feel like a douche with the awkward way you’re forced to carry the store bag. They always seem made to be as stiff as possible, forcing you to carry them label forward as if you’re showing off to everyone that you bought something expensive. 

It’s only around six, and the sun is still beaming on you on your walk through the neighborhood. It’s really quiet, so there must not be many kids in the subdivision, but the closer you get to His house the more noise you hear. There are several cars parked in the driveway and on the street, and you really don’t appreciate the way some random man is leaning against your modest Cruze as he drinks a beer and talks up some girl with a long blonde wig. It’s silky and nice, and you momentarily nod in appreciation; it’s a color you’ve always wanted to try.

But more importantly, there seems to be a party going on, if the pounding bass coming from inside the house is any indication. You awkwardly step across the freshly watered grass, going up to the front porch and turning the knob. It’s unlocked, and it’s like you’re suddenly back in college. There are people everywhere, chilling and smoking and dancing and drinking. You scoff in disbelief as you move through the foyer, seeing a few rappers and singers that you haven’t seen outside of your Instagram feed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen so many gorgeous women in one contained space, there’s so much blinding highlight everywhere that it’s hurting your eyes and you accidentally bump into a passing girl with pink hair.

You go to apologize but her stink face cuts you off immediately, and you watch her roll her eyes at you before moving toward the door with your eyebrows raised. She’s shaped real bold, like an ant, and normally you wouldn’t dare negatively talk down on another woman’s body but she clearly needs to fire her plastic surgeon. Besides, she sneered at you first.

To be honest, you feel very much like some senior’s freshman sibling that wandered into a party uninvited, and the eyes on you are beginning to make you get hot and bothered in a bad way. You don’t see N’Jadaka anywhere, and it’s starting to make you anxious because you’d very much like to grab your keys and go home since he’s entertaining so much company. 

You creep toward the living room, avoiding people and pretending not to hear those  _ ‘Aye, baby!’s  _ coming from behind you. Maybe they weren’t even talking to you, but you  _ are  _ wearing those cut offs. The same cutoffs you managed to bag Wakandan royalty with.

The music is loudest in here, as are the people, and you’re about to bypass his old school lowered living room until you see a black streak in some chick’s lap. She’s gorgeous, really, sitting cross legged on the carpet while she laughs at something the source of your annoyance is saying to one of his boys. 

Her hair is dark brown ombre, turning into blonde at the ends and she has on so much gold jewelry she’s shining like a star. All she’s wearing is a tank and jeans, but she’s definitely wearing the  _ hell  _ out of it as she sits there. Sitting there, petting your puppy,  _ your  _ King that you had to clear several emotional hurdles to obtain. You’ve never felt so irrationally irritated  in your life, but it all turns into something much worse when you see the white bandages on King’s ears. 

You stand there, staring, at the white gauze and the tricked out gold chain collar around his neck with a face that can probably be felt because the Pretty one holding him suddenly stops smiling to look you dead in the face. 

“Um?” she goes, raising one eyebrow at you. She’s prettier than you, you think, and it’s ironic how all of your confidence and assurance that you don’t need physical validation goes straight out the damn window all because a girl is holding  _ your _ dog.

Your mutilated, dog. 

“ _ What  _ are you staring at?” she goes, her confusion now turning into irritation. It’s really no fault of her own but you’re about two seconds from hopping over the damn couch at someone or something. N’Jadaka still hasn’t paid you any attention,  despite the fact that several of the people milling around have, and you stand there with your arms folded until he figures it the hell out. The Pretty one stands up slowly, remarking at how old her legs feel with a laugh, before letting King down and sitting entirely too close to the oblivious host of this party. Now that he’s down, your oblivious dog begs for her attention again and she pulls him up to her lap.

_ Now  _ you recognize her; she’s some rapper Kayla’s been trying to get you to listen to forever. You kept forgetting, but now you pettily don’t think you’ll ever put forth the effort. But you shouldn’t be like that, should you? These random people don’t owe you, a nobody, anything. The only person who does, in fact, sees no problem with letting her slim thick ass sit on his lap.

And now you’re seconds away from foaming at the mouth because she’s prettier than you, sitting on  _ his  _ lap and holding  _ your  _ dog and you don’t even remember where your damn car keys are and someone is blocking you in the driveway anyway and it’s too much.

You’ve never really been one to fly off the handle before, but the few times that you have gotten angry enough to react are times your girls used to tease you about. They always said your face gets weirdly calm yet furious like you’re about to go crazy, and that if you really wanted to put some bass in your voice it definitely got the point across.

_ It’s always the quiet ones,  _ they’d tease.  _ They’re either the Hulk or little freaks in bed.  _

But you don’t want to blow up because you cannot fight for absolute shit and looking at this girl you’re sure she can. You were  _ crystal  _ clear to N’Jadaka that you hate when people crop Pit Bulls’ ears, that you find it nothing but a needless, vain, act of cruelty for the sake of making a tough looking dog and he’s gone and done it anyway. Ontop of that, he put some expensive ass gold chain around King’s neck as opposed to that cute collar with the bone-shaped dog tag you made at the store kiosk yesterday. Honestly? Your feelings are hurt, and whether or not they should be is up for debate. King, at the very least, seems to be happy and no more worse for wear than he was when you left him this morning but it doesn’t change anything.

N’Jadaka doesn’t hear you when you call his  _ other _ name, the music is so loud it’s vibrating your entire soul, and you’re left to watch pitifully as that pretty ass rapper whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh. 

“I’m gonna lose my goddamn-” you mutter, cutting yourself off as you try to figure out what to do. You don’t want to hop in front of all of them, making the attention be on you just so you can cower in the face of your insecurity flare up, but anger isn’t rational. Nor does it give a flying fuck about the rest of your feelings.

You step in front of the large tv, blocking the music video from the few people that are actually looking at it. Everyone else is living it up, drinking and smoking and being merry and you’re just a grey cloud in the living room with your hands on your hips. 

That pretty rapper slowly turns her head to look at you expectantly,  and N’Jadaka is just  _ so  _ busy whispering in her ear to pay you any kinds of damn mind. She’s giggling at the feeling of his beard on her neck and you just laugh because you don’t give a damn how much Hennesey he’s been drinking. And judging by the bottles and shot glasses littering the cofee table; it’s a sizeable amount. 

She suddenly goes, “Can we help you, little girl?”

And everyone sitting around turns to look at you. You just give her a look that screams not to try you, begging at the same time to elaborate on her comment about you looking like a kid. Is it your lack of heavy jewelry? Your rather bland hairstyle today? Maybe it’s the lack of of a full beat, but either way you’ll get to her later. Instead, you look to N’Jadaka, who’s now looking at you like nobody invited you. 

“When you get back?” he asks, all laid back as if he really doesn’t have another girl sitting on his lap. 

You don’t know how your face looks right now but a few of his boys start cracking up, going  _ ‘oooo’  _ and telling him he’s in trouble, and you’re inclined to agree. 

“Aye, she look like she about to start doin’ some Xmen mind control shit-”

That embarasses you and you stomp away, your face burning hot and your already fragile feelings are as hurt as they’ve been in a while. You feel humiliated as you pace, trying desperately to find a place in his house that isn’t currently occupied. The way upstairs is blocked and there are too many people in the kitchen leading out to the backyard. There’s a pool; you never noticed it there.

  You don’t want to end up like in the movies, where someone gets humiliated at a party and freaks out and cries, bringing everyone’s attention to them in the worst way. During your angry stomping you’ve hurt your ankle something fierce, but you don’t care. You’re better off calling an Uber and coming back to get your car when you’ve cooled off. 

You stay in the back hallway near the bathroom for a long time, bouncing your leg and crying angry tears until no one is comfortable milling around you and before long you’re alone. All of this music, all of these industry faces, everything should have you lit and enjoying yourself. But instead you’re some crying chick at the back of the party, and you aren’t even drunk. 

“Aye, you good?” comes a voice from the bathroom doorway, and you jump at the sound. It’s some tall, slim guy with blonde dreads and rips in his jeans, looking like the kids you saw in the art department in college. He has a nose ring, and you’ve always wanted one of those yourself.

You nod, forcing a smile. “I’m good. Thank you.”

He copies your nod, smiling back at you before moving back toward the party. He gives you one last glance as he turns the corner, shooting you another smile before disappearing into the crowd. He’s definitely Sydney’s type, not yours. She just loves slim dudes that look like they’re a face tatt away from becoming soundcloud rappers.

More time passes but you quickly decide that moping around in the corner isn’t going to make you feel better. What you need is to go home, make some dinner, and then crash in your bed to stupid videos on Youtube. 

Straightening your posture and readjusting your top, you sigh and begin making your way back toward the front. You ignore any and all comments on your butt, making sure to roll your eyes at that pretty rapper who called you a ‘little girl’ as she continues to play with King in the living room. She isn’t even looking at you as you pass, but you’re so busy looking at her that you don’t see N’Jadaka blocking your way to the front door. You bump into him hard, stumbling back a couple steps as he stands unmoving with his eyes on you. 

“Move.”

“Where you goin’?” he asks, actually seeming surprised that you’re leaving and you want to scream.

“I’m leaving,” you say calmly. “I can’t believe you.”

He still seems lost, and that makes you even angrier. How used to disregarding people’s feelings is he, exactly? How can one person be so unaware about another that they can be utterly confused as to how they’ve made them upset. You were completely right on the money it seems, on him not really caring much about you more than what’s between your legs.

You try and push him, but he predictably doesn’t move, but you’re breathing hard and you’re afraid you’re about to have a full out panic attack in front of all these people. 

“Get  _ out  _ of my fucking way, Erik,” you seethe, and you can’t believe that you’re protecting his privacy like this by using his other name. “I swear i’m about to lose my goddamn mind in here.”

He only looks at you, he’s always fucking looking at you, and before you know it you are  _ screaming  _ every profanity known to man. You don’t even care how many people are staring at you, but you need the fine piece of shit standing in front of you to know about how humiliated he managed to make you feel in less than 15 minutes. You scream about King, and about his ears, and the collar you made him and was so proud of but most of all you scream about him letting other chicks get so familiar when he threw a whole tantrum at the idea of you dancing on other men in a club. 

Your rant tapers off into deafening silence despite the fact that the music is still shaking the entire house. You don’t know how loud you were actually screaming or if he even  _ heard  _ you but you punctuate your irritation at the whole scenario by shoving the Coach bag at his chest because you don’t even want it anymore. You bought it with  _ his  _ money.

He doesn’t even try and stop you from pushing past him and out the door, and the few people watching some crying girl limp down the street seem to be laughing in disbelief. You make it to the fifth house down before you start really crying, and it’s hard to call an Uber when your tears keep screwing up the touch recognition. It takes a second but you finally manage to do it, and luckily for you, Samantha in her grey Ultima are less than five minutes away.

There’s only one thought you have as you limp past the subdivision gate and it’s one you have a lot:  _ men  _ are annoying.

* * *

By the time your greasy, extra bell pepper and pepperoni pizza gets to your door you’ve already trash talked N’Jadaka for a whole hour to your girls. And since  _ you’re  _ trash talking him, they’re doing the same and the groupchat is a hilarious mess of insults punctuated by silly memes sent to cheer you up.

You make sure to tell Kayla her fav rapper was a total bitch to you; because that ‘little girl’ comment was so condescending and rude. She didn’t get all snooty until she was on N’Jadaka’s lap, and you hate the way she sneered at you. It reminded you of all the catty shit you had to go through in high school. To make it even worse,  _ he  _ hadn’t even defended you. Hadn’t told her to get off him or checked her snide comment about you.

The phone buzzes with a new notification just as you’ve taken a bite of your first slice.

_ Damn. Well lemme unfollow her on IG real quick. In solidarity - Kay _

_ Block her too. In solidarity - You _

_ Well idk about alldet- Kay _

You start laughing, just so happy to have the support of your friends. Unlike shitty men, they won’t make you feel like a literal stupid child. He hasn’t text you at all since you left, and you keep glancing at your cell phone nervously whenever it buzzes with a text from your girls. 

_ Is he a rapper? Like why is he in this pic with all these industry people? - Kay _

_ He rap AND he royalty? No wonder he stay giving you money like that - Sydney _

You roll your eyes and send a quick denial back. He’s not a rapper, at least you don’t think so, but you’d definitely know if he was either way. You would’ve seen some indication of a music industry in his house, you’re sure of it.                                                                                                                    

_ He’s not a rapper. He just has connections, i’m sure. Either way, what pic are you looking at? - You _

Kayla sends you a screenshot from instagram, that pretty rapper’s page, and she’s posing with N’Jadaka and a bunch of other people from the party. She’s throwing up west coast signs on both hands with her lip quirked up and you  _ hate  _ how pretty she is standing next to him. She truly looks like she belongs there, like the two of them are a couple. Kayla warns you not to go creeping on IG but you disregard her advice and do it anyway. 

Tons of followers, link to her album, blah blah blah, but what you’re most interested in is her stories. You tap it, seeing one from this morning about her so happy to be living her best life as she sits by the pool in a tiny bikini. You impatiently tap a few more times; hitting right as she arrives to N’Jadaka’s party. Her little caption says  _ Erik lowkey throws the best parties.  _ The next one has your tiny baby puppy in it, with a sticker on the video of a huge cartoony crown. She’s cooing and squealing at him from behind the camera.  _ His name is King this is too much. _

Kayla, of course, was right to warn you not to do this because all you do is succeed in making yourself feel even worse if it was even possible.

You whine into your hands, not even hungry anymore, before tossing your half eaten slice back into the box at the foot of your bed. Your phone buzzes.

_ You done throwin a tantrum? - N. _

You just stare at the text for the longest time, disgusted, before typing the fastest message you’ve ever sent. 

_ Nigga fuck you. - You. _

And you turn your cell to ‘Do Not Disturb,’ tossing it on the nightstand before you go to put your medium pizza away in the refrigerator. You’re sure you’re going to wake up at 3 in the morning craving it. It’s funny how he’s managed to re-kill your mood, and you don’t do anything more save for wrapping your silk scarf around your head and disappearing under the covers. The worst part about him knowing where you live is that he’s had no qualms bypassing the lock and coming in anyway, but you just hope he has the sense God gave a pigeon not to impose on you right now. That gun is in your nightstand drawer and you don’t know what you’d do if he came through that door.

Your phone buzzes again, loud against the wood of your nightstand. You try to ignore it but you know there’s no use. Ultimately, you’ll see it.

_ I know you not mad about B - N _

 

That pretty rapper goes by ‘B,’ and you roll your eyes at the screen before squinting at the brightness to make your reply. The fact that he’s even asking means he didn’t hear a word that came out of your damn mouth earlier and that enrages you into screaming at the ceiling. You really don’t care about your neighbors right now, it needs to come out.

The next message from you is short and sweet.

_ You petty and you got me fucked up. - You _

Then you block his number; not permanently just temporarily until you can figure out if you being this mad is an appropriate reaction. It feels irrational, but you know it isn’t, but that’s what you get for thinking a man like him would be capable of not disrespecting you at some point. You can’t stop thinking about King, how N’Jadaka honest-to-God got his ears cropped and tossed your collar. Like he just had to put his bougie claim on him.

Your mind is running a mile a minute, and you’re too upset to keep your eyes closed for longer than a few seconds. This shit has you crazy, and you just can’t  _ stop  _ your brain from once again trying to delve into the psychology of your ex. Kayla told you to stop letting him have a hold on you and you really thought entertaining another man would wipe his face from your memory. 

After a few agonizing minutes you get up and schedule a hair appointment; there’s no reason to stop trying to distract yourself with day-to-day activities. In fact, once your hair is done, you’re definitely going to the mall and buy yourself something nice. With  _ your  _ money. And it might not be as extravagant as that really cute Coach bag you got earlier but that’s just okay. Maybe you’ll get some cute underwear to lounge around the house in.

Oddly enough, thinking of all the cute perfumes and outfits you get to look at while you should be at work gets you drowsy enough to fall asleep. Later for men right now. 


	11. okay he won that one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but you'll win that war

Waking up after having an uncomfortably explicit wet dream about that fool currently occupying your mind makes you want to die a little bit and you don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you’re supposed to be angry at him or maybe it’s because said wet dream interrupted your _other_ dream about being a famous, talented R&B singer and having the world at your feet. You’d always vainly thought about being famous when you were a teenager, but your complete lack of singing ability is probably proof that you shouldn’t pursue it.

Although it hasn’t stopped some people.

You lean up to stretch, painfully staring at the bruising on your ankle. You’ve always bruised easily but you think that this is a bit ridiculous. Still, you have no time to think about the fact that you should have probably seen a doctor as you hobble to the bathroom. The girl that braids your hair is an absolute monster if you’re late to her shop, and you’re a bit surprised she even answered your late night appointment text.

You’re thinking extra long, butt-length, small-ish twists this time for a change of pace. And sure, you still have Kayla’s wig but you’re thinking of cutting it some so it’s less likely to get caught in a car door as you’re trying to look cute. Maybe you’ll dye it.

It’s still on your mind when you’re out of the shower and getting dressed in the laziest outfit you own; a zip up hoodie from PINK over a tank with a pair of athletic shorts. You slip on comfortable socks and your Nikes, limping on out of the door with your hair in a bun.

The shop is near the old neighborhood but you decide against going to see your parents solely for the reason you’re supposed to be at work. In fact, you haven’t told anyone about your quitting yet, or the invitation to return whenever you want in the future. _That’s_ good to know, considering you may as well be on your way back now with the way that you feel about N’Jadaka.

An unknown number calls you in the line at Starbucks, and you deny the call without giving it a second glance. You had to have an Uber drop you off here, but luckily the shop is a block or so away. The woman that braids your hair likes to pretend that she doesn’t like when  you bring her breakfast during your appointments but you know from experience that she and her assistant finish your shit a hell of a lot faster when they eat something. That impatience has you limping to the shop with three breakfast sandwiches and a coffee for yourself. Luckily for you they’re herbal tea people, and you know damn well they’d better deduct ten bucks from your price for the breakfast.

The both of them greet you when you finally get inside, the cowbell on the door janglign loud in your ear.

“Hey, Miss _____,” the main braider, Shaneice, says with a smile. She’s fully pregnant, and her round stomach is just so cute to you underneath her grey sweater dress. It’s pretty warm outside yet her shop is freezing from two separate air conditioning units, but you chalk it up to it being a byproduct of her pregnancy. Her assistant Kelly is just coming out the bathroom when you sit down, and you hold out a paper bag toward her with a smile. On cue she takes it, giving you a look that screams _You already know._

Shaniece takes your hair out of the bun and starts fluffing, her long nails scratching your scalp and that shit nearly makes you fall asleep. “You want twists today?”

“Yeah.”

She wastes no time, already parting sections and that’s why you love coming to her. Unfortunately, though, she wastes no time in other areas either.

“So we heard you got a man?”

You roll your eyes straight to that stain on the ceiling tile above you, knowing immediately that Sydney’s big mouth ass had to spill. She’d just been here to get her hair done and she’s the only one that could have possibly said anything. Word spreads so fast in the neighborhood, and the last thing you need is your mom to call you and ask about it. They’ll want to meet him and that cannot happen, Jesus.

“We’re talkin’,” you say, waving it away. “That’s it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!” Now you’re laughing. “Now tell Syd next time she’s in here to stop gossiping about me or imma kick her ass.”

Both Shaniece and Kelly are cracking up now, already changing the subject by the time the three of you have come down. Even though she loves smacking your tender-headed ass around when she does your hair, you really needed this to start your day off right. The two of them always have you looking right and for that you’re glad. Sydney showed you the place a couple years ago after you kept whining about the braiding shops you found ruining people’s edges.

There’s another notification on your phone, unknown number.

By the time your hair is done it’s reaching early afternoon, a new record from Shaniece even with the fact that she kept having to sit down and rest ever so often. She wears pregnancy well, and you wonder how old you’ll be when you decide to have a kid. Shit, and with whom. It’s definitely something you’ve always wanted; a little girl or maybe twins, but it makes you feel weird to think about that. Like it’s inherently too adult.

You say your goodbyes, making sure to cheekily fling your twists over your shoulder as you exit, much to the applause of your stylists. You’re sure the video is going up on their instagram later.

It takes you a good five minutes to realize your car is still in N’Jadaka’s driveway, and you really want to just start screaming at God to ask him why he’s doing you like this. Sure, you could Uber to the mall and back but the ride here already set you back twenty bucks plus tip. This shit isn’t cheap, and you damn near have a full tank of gas just waiting in that bougie driveway and you know deep in your soul you have no choice.

You can’t just let your car sit at his house. It’s your car and you need it.

“Fuck,” you mutter, tapping in N’Jadaka’s address.

Your thumb lingers over the ‘request ride’ button for the longest time, but after a few agonizing minutes you switch the location to the mall. Fuck it, you need more time alone.

And it works great at first; you, browsing your favorite shops in the mall without a care in the world. Usually, you consider window shopping an art, and usually you have the self control not to make impulse purchases when you’re alone. But now, in your desperate desire to push N’Jadaka out of your mind, buying that pair of heels looking back at you is looking like a good idea.

A crying kid nearby shocks you out of your hypnotism and you use the moment to slide on out of the store and back into the main corridor. It smells like cookies and fried food, and that’s another temptation you have to overcome as you pass the food court. You do, however, snag more coffee for yourself and just as you do your phone rings.

Surprisingly, it’s not the very obvious ‘unknown’ number.

“Hey, Kay,” you go, pulling out a rumpled 5 to give to the barista. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

She throws it right back. “Bitch, aren’t _you_ supposed to  be at work?”

“Anyway.”

She starts laughing before suddenly cutting herself off. You can already tell by the shift in her breathing that she’s about to tell you something major. Knowing people for so long has its perks.

“Shit,” she says. “Did you hear about that old pervert ass Mr.Henry?”

You step to the side to wait for your drink, frowning. “No? I mean, I saw him a couple days ago when I got King, but…”

“Somebody put that fool in the hospital.”

“‘Somebody,’ huh?” You ask, shaking your head. You can only fucking _imagine_ who that someone could be. And sure, you could give N’Jadaka the benefit of the doubt because it could have been anyone; hell, maybe it was the original adopter of your puppy that wasn’t too happy to find out he’d been given to someone else.

Kayla goes on and on about that clown and you’re forced to change the subject when you start getting that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. You cannot stomach talking about that man in any facet and it’s no one’s fault but your own that you didn’t really tell the others how you feel about him. They’d know to keep his name out of your presence otherwise.

The barista smiles at you as you get your iced coffee and you don’t really smile back. Usually, not being courteous to retail and food service workers makes you ill but you just can’t muster the energy to do much of anything once Kayla has to get back to work.   _This isn’t working,_ you think boredly, sipping your iced mocha and staring at the shoppers going by. _I need to do something else._

That ‘something else’ becomes getting your nails done, which turns into buying yourself a steak. That turns to eating pizza at 2 in the morning and crying over _Titanic._ One night turns to two and two becomes two weeks before you know it and you miss him. You actually miss that asshole with all those walls up around him; the one that probably would have never told you his name if you hadn’t accidentally overheard it. It sucks.

Especially because you miss your dog and your car.

Instagram creeping has let you know King has gotten a bit bigger since you’ve seen him last, but not enough that you couldn’t still lift him with one arm. His ears have healed and that idiotic gold chain is still around his neck and you want so badly to take the shit and pawn it. That rapper, B, has popped up a couple more times on N’Jadaka’s instagram and for that you try not to dwell too much on. The fact that he has an instagram is kind of funny to you, but you still haven’t followed him.

It’s Saturday evening when you unblock his number, hands trembling as you type a message into the text box. You’re standing in the kitchen waiting on your coffee maker to feed your caffeine addiction, nails tapping hard against the cracked surface of your phone when you send it.

_Can I come over? - You_

 

Seconds after sending it, ‘read’ pops up underneath and immediately you wish you never bothered. You pour creamer and sugar into your mug with anxiety just running through your very core. Maybe coffee isn’t the best thing for you right now.

The phone buzzes.

 

_Yeah come thru - N_

 

You’re puzzled at how easy that was, but you unplug your coffee maker all the same. It’s really nasty and sad, you think, at how quickly you run to your bedroom to pull on something cuter than the faded tee and sweatpants you’ve been rocking. Yanking them off as fast as you can, you damn near stumble into the bathroom to wash up before deciding what to wear. Wanting to look cute while also not wanting to seem like you’re trying too hard is an abstract art; and you spend an agonizingly long time looking through your drawers.

“Damn, I got basic clothes,” you mutter to yourself, pulling an oversized sweatshirt over your head. It’s probably an 5x or something, an online order mishap that you never got corrected, but it covers your butt and thus is appropriate wear for outside.

You slide on a couple beaded bracelets you bought from a gemstone kiosk in the mall before grabbing a toothbrush for your baby hairs. Part of you missed this fanfare; with no car and no real desire to do much you barely touched your jewelry box or makeup.  

The Uber arrives outside just as you’re spraying perfume, and you give one last look at yourself in your full length mirror. Your ankle isn’t as bruised or swollen anymore, just a bit sore, so you decide to put on a pair of those black slides with the stupid looking fuzzy ball ontop. They’re leftovers from Kayla, and you used to snort whenever she’d buy a pair in a new color. Ironically, they’re the most comfortable slip on in your closet.

You’re running out of time, now, so you hurriedly lock the door behind you and hightail it down to the waiting black Escalade. That irritating ass Rational Mind of yours is calling you all kinds of names but this time Hoe Thoughts is holding her ass at gunpoint. You tried, you really tried to stay away but you quickly realized there’s no point if there’s no talking involved. Someone needs to tell him about himself, he needs to _know_ how much he hurt your fragile feelings in the span of literally 15 or so minutes. He acted like he didn’t care about your ass one bit, and you know part of it was motivated out of some petty slight he felt you caused him. You _know_ he saw you standing there. You _know_ he deliberately got King’s ears cropped knowing it’d make you upset. You’re not stupid.

The Uber driver has to drop you off at the gate, and you thank him before starting your walk down the sidewalk. It’s giving you major deja vu to the last time you’ve done this and that alone has you wanting to turn back around. However, you stand a little straighter because you’ll be damned if you run away like you’re scared when you have something to say.

He _will_ hear it, too.

You ring the doorbell once, patiently waiting with your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, and you immediately hear faint barking. God, you missed King and you _really_ missed that car of yours with the ugly ass scratch because catching Ubers is going to have you broke before it’s all over. It hasn’t moved despite the fact that you definitely left the keys somewhere in his house.

There’s music coming from inside and for a second your heart drops because you don’t think you’ll be able to handle it if he’s having another ‘get-together.’ It is saturday, after all.

When the door opens you don’t expect him to be standing there looking that good, with his arms looking so amazing in the loose tank he’s wearing. He looks like he’s going out, or at least went out, and you’re too busy taking him in to notice him holding the door open.

You step past him shyly, eyes trained on the floor as King starts sprinting toward you with his tail wagging hard. His claws are tapping against the hardwood floor so hard it’s hilarious, and you bend down to scoop him up before he goes soaring out the door.

“I missed you,” you sing, wishing so badly he still had his floppy ears.

Behind you, N’Jadaka closes and locks the door before stepping past you and down the hall. You follow silently, still holding King to your chest, before coming to a stop in the doorway to his kitchen. You feel awkward, like there’s some kind of tension in the air, and you don’t know where to begin this much-needed conversation. So instead, you watch him pull out a couple beers from the sleek silver refrigerator before sliding you one across the counter.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s Stella.

Setting King down you stand there, holding the bottle of beer and staring at N’Jadaka expectantly, who stares right back at you. At first he just looks at you blankly, before snickering between sips.

“What?!” you go, defensively.

“Nothin’,” he says, shaking his head. “You just funny, that’s all.”

“How?”

“You know how, lil bit,” he says, smirking at you. “You miss me givin’ you that work? Is that what you came back for?”

Scoffing, you set the beer down and step around the island and closer to him. You feel your cheeks heating up again and your voice doing that trembling thing it does when you’re upset. “No! I came back because the dog you mutilated is _mine,_ and the car in your driveway is   _mine,_ and the bitch you disrespected a couple weeks ago is standin’ right here trying to make you realize that and all you got is jokes?”

N’Jadaka sets his own drink down to saunter over to you and you just look up at him with an eyebrow raised. You only come up to his collarbone, the top of your head being able to barely brush his chin, and you have to take half a step back.

You just keep going. “I don’t understand you. You catch an attitude with me over going to a club but you turn around and have mediocre ass IG rappers all up under you and shit? She sat there and looked at me like I was somebody’s irritating ass little sister, playing with _my_ GODDAMN DOG, THAT _YOU_ CUT THE FUCKIN’ EARS OF-”

If N’Jadaka hadn’t raised his eyebrows at you, you wouldn’t have even known you were screaming like you’d lost your mind. It’s like somebody straight up pulled up a cork off your bottled up emotions and now you can’t stop it from coming out. _Fuck_ if you didn’t need to just yell it out, and by the time you’re done cussing him out for cropping your dog’s ears you just can’t anymore and you drain half your bottle of Stella in one hit.

It’s silent in the kitchen, King long gone because of your yelling, and you just stand with your hands braced on the kitchen island in a stupor. That beer made you dizzy and you close your eyes and let out a shaky breath, tapping your freshly filled in acrylics on the surface. They’re longer than you usually have them, coffin shaped and pearl pink.

If someone were to ask if you feel any better you wouldn’t know what to tell them, only that you don’t really feel like killing his ass anymore, and it doesn’t have anything to do with him coming up behind you like he is.

“You look good,” he says in your ear, moving your twists out the way. “You done?”

“Yes i’m done,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Bitch ass. You got somethin’ to say to me? I’m not gonna just forget that shit.”

He suddenly turns you around, and you blink up at him with your lips pursed. He’s going to give you some closure if it’s the last thing he does. You just stare at him, dead in the eyes until he does the same. His own flick back and forth between yours before he sighs and brushes a hand over his face. It’s like he’s arguing with himself over something, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he looks down at you and you’re half afraid of the answer.

It seems like an hour passes before he finally speaks.

“Damn, baby,” he says, shaking his head at you. “Aight. Shit.”

“Hm,” you go, rolling your eyes for the nth time. “Was that supposed to be a fuckin’ apology?”

He gives you that stupid shit eating grin again and you just keep giving him that pursed  lip expression that your mother used to give you whenever you fucked up in her presence. You want it to be crystal clear that you’re not ‘over’ this in any facet, and that his complete disregard for how his petty ass made you feel isn’t something you’re not going to just forget. In fact, you don’t even need his lips to form the word ‘sorry,’ you need him to act like he is. He needs to _show_ you.

You drink the rest of your beer in silence, not paying him any kinds of attention as he checks you out. Or rather, he tries, but the oversized hoodie is leaving a lot to the imagination.

Scoffing, he yanks one of your sleeves. “Damn, I make you mad and you come in here dressed in a sack?”

Then he pauses before suddenly frowning at you like you wronged him. He says, “Oh so, you wearin’ other niggas’ clothes now?”

“Shut _up,”_ you sigh, setting the empty bottle in the sink. “This is my hoodie, thank you. I’m not petty like you.”

He only snorts, remarking on your ‘smart ass mouth’ before reaching down to lift your hoodie up. You really don’t care if your regular old, cotton panties with the logo waistband are ‘sexy’ enough for him. And judging by the ‘tsk’ noise he makes with his mouth, they aren’t. You have to smack his hands away from you to get him to snap out of it, and when his eyes dart back up to yours you point in his face.

“That’s off-limits tonight,” you say, struggling to keep your Hoe Thoughts in her cage. No matter how much you’ve missed his touch and those damn lips on you. And you _really_ did. Thinking about it has you all hot and bothered so you turn away from him before he can lure you in with that look of his. It’s so hard to avoid.

You hop up to sit on a kitchen stool before pretending to go through your phone. “My friend Kay likes that chick, B, or whatever. How do you know her?”

He shrugs. “I know her from back in the day.”

“Oh really?” You try not to sound jealous. “How well you know her?”

“She give good head but that’s about it.”

You feel like he said that on purpose and when you look at him, he’s smirking at you. He’s probably not lying, though, and you suppose you don’t have cause to feel any kind of way about it. “That’s it, huh.”

Another shrug from him. “Fucked her in the back of my car one night. Pussy can’t compare to yours, though, lil bit. Yo shit is fire.”

You must make a crazy ass face because he’s laughing at you again and telling you not to trip. You don’t appreciate being played with and he’s really got you all types of fucked up if he thinks your comfortable underwear are leaving your person tonight.

It’s like you tell him this several times over the course of the night, and he doesn’t seem to get it until you’re reclined in his bed with King in your lap. You’ve been in and out of the movie on tv, waiting on N’Jadaka to come back from getting you food. He was so sure he was about to get some when you got in his face, but all you wanted was for him to go pick some dinner up.

The ‘beep-beep-beep’ of the house’s alarm lets you know that he’s back so you carefully lay King down in the dog bed in the corner of the room.

You can smell the food as N’Jadaka is coming up the stairs, and you damn near run into him in the doorway as he rounds the corner with a tall paper bag. King seems to wake up the second he smells it, and he’s already trying to see what’s up with his tail wagging.

“Yo lil ass ain’t gettin’ shit,” N’Jadaka goes, side stepping over him. “So stop beggin’.”

“Don’t talk to him like that!” you shout, folding your arms.

“Quit babyin’ that dog. He can’t understand what i’m sayin’, anyway.”

You snatch the bag from him and inhale; it’s Chinese takeout but only enough for one. You go to say something about it but he’s already pulling on a jacket and turning away.

“Where are you going?”

He snorts at you, and you really hate when he does that, before moving on into the hallway. You follow, asking again, and he only mutters something about you being nosy. If you had a dollar every time he called you something other than your actual name, you’d probably be as rich as he is. In fact, you wish you did because you’d be able to comfortably buy those shoes that keep calling to you every time you go to the mall.

“Well,” you finally say, following him down to the front door. “Be careful, I guess.”

“You guess, huh,” he says, stepping out onto the porch.

You half expect him to kiss you or otherwise show some kind of affection that isn’t overtly sexual so you can pettily avoid it but instead he just keeps on keeping on to his parked car. He hits the button on the remote and it’s like it comes to life, rumbling so nice in the driveway. It’s a gorgeous car, really, and it makes yours look like a jalopy piece of shit by comparison.

Truthfully, you didn’t think he’d just leave you hanging like this after coming over. Sure, you wanted to tell him he upset you and make it very clear you weren’t going to tolerate it, but you _also_ wanted a chance to let him know he isn’t allowed to get frisky. You didn’t expect to be left watching his house all night, either. It freaks you to be all alone inside it, and you spend a good 10 minutes closing all of the blinds and making sure the windows are tight. You know he’s a killer, or at least was, and you can’t help feeding into your paranoid thoughts about an old enemy of his coming and abducting you in the middle of the night. But it’s too late, you’ve already thought it, and since you’ve already thought it you can’t allow yourself to relax in his comfortable ass bed long after you’ve eaten and King is asleep again.

The clock says it’s nearing 3 AM when N’Jadaka shocks you awake, and you stare wide-eyed at the huge figure in the dark doorway wondering if tonight is honestly about to be your last. You panic for a good two seconds, that fear twisting your stomach and making your chest hurt, until he flicks on the light.

He only glances at you before going to pull his shirt off, asking, “You still up?”

“Yes,” you sigh, heart still hammering in your chest. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Ignoring you completely, N’Jadaka walks past you, gesturing dismissively at your clothes. “Take that off in my bed. Got dog hair and shit on it.”

You look down at yourself, and sure enough, you see dark little hairs on your hoodie. Normally you’d be more careful when it comes to other people’s houses. Normally, you don’t wear shoes in other people’s houses if there’s carpet, nor do you sit on their beds with clothes on from the outside. You remember as a kid you and your friends went to the movies and all lazed around in Sydney’s bed only for her to discover she had bed bugs a week later. Who knows what clings to your clothes.

“Sorry,” you mumble, standing up. He surprisingly doesn’t watch you pull your hoodie off, and when you’re standing there in a sports bra and panties he’s _still_ paying you no mind. Flipping the script, you decide to watch him move around his bedroom with his eyebrows so close together they look like they’re connected. He seems angry now that you look at him, and a negative vibe is just radiating off him to the point you’re afraid to say anything else. He sits roughly down on the bed, going in his nightstand drawer for a pack of strawberry Swisher

Sweets. You watch patiently as he slowly rolls a blunt, wondering just how much weed he keeps in that drawer.

“You gonna share that?”

“Nah.”

Bitch.

You lay at the foot of the bed with an attitude, grabbing your phone and opening up Youtube for some stupid videos to make you sleepy. In the back of your mind you still wish he’d have grabbed your butt at the very least, hell, he hasn’t touched you all night. Now that your anger has sort of worn off you wouldn’t _object_ to some physical affection. Still, no sex for him. Not from you. Not tonight.

Ten minutes into a vine compilation you can feel his eyes on you, and when you turn your head you see him lazily looking at your butt. You’re laying on your stomach, head resting on your arms, and you go back to staring at your phone without a word. Your legs are up now, idly kicking back and forth and you’re starting to get affected by the blunt he’s smoking. Despite the fact that you haven’t smoked in a long time you really kind of want in on it; just to relax your worrisome thoughts for a second.

Looking at him again you quietly ask, “You really not gonna share that?”

He shakes his head at you, slow, letting smoke pour out of his mouth as he does so. Bitch.

“ _Please?”_

“Don’t get on my nerves, _____.”

Oh. You raise your eyebrows at the usage of your name rather than ‘lil bit’ or some other variant. He clearly has an attitude tonight and you were right to not want to engage. It’s kind of funny, though, because now the both of you have attitudes, and you really feel like being petty and going home. He has a lot of nerve, you think, as you lean up to stare hard at him through your twists.  He stares back and you narrow your eyes in irritation.

“Why don’t I just leave, then?”

He rolls his eyes at you. “Go ‘head.”

“Really!”

You’re definitely too exhausted to drive all the way home and he knows that, but for him to call your bluff makes you want to throw a whole tantrum. You get halfway there, at least, folding your arms and pouting with your lower lip jutted out. He really lets you sit there, trying hard to piggyback off his high, until your back starts to hurt from holding so rigid.

It really hurts actually, and when you’re about to give up N’Jadaka beckons you closer with one hand. “Get yo crybaby ass over here.”

You hate being told what to do (non-sexually) but the lack of attention has you acting childish and you waste no time going over to him. His ass is killing your initial plans of teasing him as petty vengeance because he’s acting like he doesn’t care. He takes you by the hips and sets you down on his lap, but you’re still pouting with your arms folded.

“Pretty chicks like you always act spoiled,” he says, reaching over to tap the lamp next to him. It goes dark. “What you want?”

“Nothin’,” you lie still folding your arms. Bitch.

“Nothin,” he repeats, nodding. “Then get yo ‘nothin’ ass off me, then.”

You really don’t want to laugh but you do, trying and failing to keep that attitude you were supposed to have. Men like him think they’re so slick, using their smooth ass words to  try and make you forget that you’re supposed to be angry. Just like that bitch in your brain that’s very much noticing his dick poking you in the butt. It’s not even hard but you can’t stop noticing it touching you through his sweatpants.

To try and distract yourself from your libido you decide to ask and important question, trying to take advantage of the fact that he’s been smoking.

“If I didn’t accidentally hear your name, would you have even told me?”

N’Jadaka shrugs, even in the dark you can see the subtle raise of his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Depends how long I would’ve kept you around.”

“But,” you start. “You said you’d keep me around.”

“I said I ‘might,’” he goes, smirking. “But you keep actin’ up, so I don’t know.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “If you decide to kick me out without callin’ me an Uber, make sure you delete those photos of me.”

“I ain’t deletin’ shit.”

You roll your eyes and get off him, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him instead. He starts channel surfing while you try and meditate to keep from hopping back on his lap. It’s weird how he still hasn’t shown any interest in sleeping with you yet, especially because he couldn’t keep his hands off you a month ago. You can’t stop yourself from thinking that he’s probably already got some tonight, and that’s why he left, but it’s not like you can just ask. He has a lot of nerve, though, if it’s true.

“Hey,” you whisper, peering over at him. His eyes are closed when you look. “How did you fall asleep that damn fast?”

He still doesn’t react, not even when you feel a sudden impulse to lean over and kiss him. It’s fast, a quick peck if anything, but his eyes shoot open and scare the shit out of you all the same. He’s either the lightest sleeper in the history of the world or he was ignoring you. Both, are plausible.

Shaking his head at you, he gives you a shove that’s light enough not to hurt but it has enough force to knock you on your butt. You end up leaning on your hair, yanking on your scalp, but who cares because he’s crawling over you. It seems Hoe Thoughts has won in the end, because it’s been a while and you’re addicted to physical affection of any time.  To spend that much time so touch starved has you downright pitiful, and you know he knows that as he hovers above you.

“Stop beggin’, it’s not a good look,” he says, smirking at you. It’s infuriating.

Not as infuriating, however, as the fact that he leaves it at that and rolls over to manhandle his pillows for sleep. You’re left lying there, already feeling that uncomfortable tingling that needs relief. You can’t believe he did that to you, that petty asshole, and when he looks over at you you flip him off. He’s lying on his back when you put your head on his chest, and he at least has the decency to hitch one of your legs up over him. It’s such a ‘bae’ pose and you don’t know how to feel about that. You’re angry at him, and you don’t appreciate him trying to make you feel like you aren’t.

After a few quiet moments you ask, “Did you get some tonight? From some other girl, I mean.”

His voice sounds disgustingly deep with your head on his chest and it rumbles like a cat’s purr in your ear.

“What’d I tell you. Hm.”

You say, “That you’re not ‘fuckin’ with anybody else.’”

“Imma fix that insecure shit real quick,” he says, shifting a bit. “Ain’t no room for all that wit’ me.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means what it means. You need to forget that other nigga that left you. I’m sick of repeatin’ myself.”

You scoff and go, “Well i’m sick of men playing with me. That includes disregarding what I say...like cropping my puppy’s ears.”

Just to slight you, he scoffs as well. “You ain’t tell me not to, you said you ain’t like it.”

At this you just have to suck your teeth and look at him, leaning up in the dark to give him the most incredulous look you’ve probably ever made. You can’t even shout or cuss, you’re so at a loss for words. He _really_ has you fucked up. More fucked up than your ex, and _that_ bastard cheated on you!

N’Jadaka’s voice has that slow, lilting cadence of someone who’s recently smoked a fat blunt and you can tell he probably hasn’t touched you because he’s too gone to try. It must be why he keeps nodding off like an 89 year old man, and he’s gone and done it again by the time you try to form words to tell him how fucked up he has you.

You decide to call him a bitch, out loud instead of in your thoughts to test if he’s really asleep. Nothing happens and it’s quiet, save for some infomercial for weight loss pills, and you get ready to close your eyes yourself until he suddenly rolls ontop of you. He has you pinned and you’re screaming. King is barking now and N’Jadaka is pretending not to notice how he’s smothering you with his wide ass body. There’s a playful growl in his voice as he’s fussing at you in Xhosa, shaking you as you scream with laughter at the absurdity of your life at the moment.

You’re still very much expecting an apology.

* * *

 

 

When you wake up, alone, King is in bed with you. He’s sniffing around the rumpled sheets and when he sees you’re awake he’s attacking your face with licks. You groan and push him away gently, hand brushing something stuck in his collar.

There’s an entire money clip stuck to it, and you take it as you lean up to stretch. You don’t know how much money is it, but it’s thick and relatively heavy. Either N’Jadaka purposefully set King in his bed or he hopped on the small bench at the foot of the bed and climbed all the way up. The second one seems more plausible, since he’d given you shit for having dog hair in your clothes, but the money clip was definitely on purpose.

“Damn, King,” you say, scratching his stomach. “I’m sorry his lame ass cropped your ears. If I was there I would’ve beat his ass I’m not even kidding.”

King only wiggles around to get back to his feet, and you decide to get up too before he decides to use the bathroom in the bed.

“The only reason I’m not as mad is because you’re fine.”

You pull your hoodie back on and search around for the leash you bought, surprised that it’s actually still here and not thrown away, before making your way downstairs. Immediately you smell bacon cooking, hear the sizzling that always gets your mouth watering. You see that impressive back, standing at the stove and pushing eggs around with a spatula and for a nanosecond you almost forget you’re angry at him.

In fact, you’d forgotten in bed with him last night but at the very least you didn’t give him any.

“Hey,” you say, breaking the silence. “King was in your bed.”

N’Jadaka sucks his teeth before turning around a little too quickly; you’re sure to put a hand on one hip. “I swear. Don’t make me kill you over this dog.”

You mean every word, or rather 85 percent of it. You’d catch bodies for your pit bulls, Zeus included. And he needs to know that.

Despite the fact that you threatened him, N’Jadaka doesn’t respond, only turning back around to tend to the scrambled eggs. It smells really good, though, and you’re definitely gonna get in on this but first you have a question.

“What’s this?” you ask, leaning against the wall with the money clip held high. “Is this for me?”

“Nah, it’s for one of my side bitches,” he grumbles, and you just look at him. “What you askin’ dumb ass questions for.”

“Because i’m pissed off at you, N’Jadaka,” you say, throwing both hands in the air. “I told you I need a lot more of an apology than a couple thousand and bacon. Even if that shit is thicker than you.”

That gets you a chuckle, and you leave it at that less King end up taking a shit in the kitchen. Despite the fact that you want to toss the cash into the sewer grate at the end of the street,  you know you could use it for your new apartment. It’s been awful trying to find a new place, and unfortunately the only ones you found suitable as far as pet policies and square footage were luxury places nearby. The rent is a bit higher than you want to pay but you can’t deny how good they looked in the inside with their black wood floors, black appliances and legitimate security gate. They’re not private entrance, though, and it’s the only major flaw.

It’s nice and warm outside, and you decide to walk King up and down the street rather than stand in one spot. Who knows if the fool making pity breakfast has even done this bare minimum.

King decides to stoop down in front of someone’s moving car and you apologize, horrified, as the driver leans out to see what’s going on in the driveway.

“I’m sorry!”

The driver, an older man with the longest grey beard you’ve ever seen, only laughs at you and waves the apology away. You’re sure he can see King pooping in his dashboard’s rear camera screen perfectly, and you trying hard to pick it up without your long twists getting in the way. You take several steps backward to let the guy pass, tying the plastic bag shut with some difficulty from your nails.

“If you’re gonna poop in people’s driveways,” you start, making your way back. “Do it in N’Jadaka’s, okay?”

The leash keeps slipping this way and that, not attaching properly to the gold chain around King’s neck, and after a few more frustrating turns you get fed up. Like usual, King goes lax in your arms when you scoop him up, and you notice with a sigh he’s definitely gotten heavier. You unhook the chain and slide it in your pocket, making a mental note to go back to the pet store and get an _actual_ collar.

As you pass the sewer grate in front of his house you have a passing urge to drop it down there. However, your desire to not be destructive to someone else’s belongings wins out in the end and you reenter the house with a rumbling stomach. You let King loose to do what he seems to like best; chew on toys in the middle of the living room, and shake off the dog hair as best as you can.

N’Jadaka isn’t in the kitchen when you enter, so you go over to the stove to help yourself. Everything smells great, and you don’t even dry your hands off before grabbing a plate and getting to work. You don’t really think he knows how much you can eat, and judging by the collosal portions in front of you he eats even more than you do. You don’t feel bad about the heaping spoonfuls of scrambled eggs you take.

You’re squealing with delight at the pot of grits on the stove when something touches your back. The fact that you could be alone one second and then have N’Jadaka suddenly appear freaks you out; he moves too silently and much too quickly when he wants to. Anything that reminds you of the fact that his body count is massive makes your anxiety soar.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, as he grabs a plate and does the same, brushing you out of the way to grab the spatula from you.

“Excuse you,” you say flippantly, turning away from him to the plate of waffles. He really made a lot of food but you just know it wasn’t all for you.

It’s dead silent and uncomfortable, save for the loud sounds of King lapping up water somewhere below you. The plan for today is to take him with you, and give him a _proper_ collar, before taking him back to your place. You know he can’t stay because of your annoying landlord, but you want him to be more used to you than anyone else.

The whole time you eat, N’Jadaka doesn’t look at you, and when he does you pretend to be on your phone. It’s _really_ weird, and the vibe in here is beginning to make you uncomfortable.

You’re convinced it’s divine intervention when your phone lights up with an email. The subject line catches your attention immediately.

 

_Congratulations, ______, and welcome to the Park Place family!_

Gasping, you open the email, half expecting a spam message about some credit card but the name of the apartment complex stares back at you. Truthfully, the complex seemed a bit out of your league, and you half expected to be denied solely because your credit isn’t as great as you want it to be. You were full prepared to cry if you spent all that money for nothing. The rent’s already high, it being in some trendy area, and now you’re trying to figure out which one of your friends you’ll ask for help if you need something.

The sound of plates clattering in the sink gets your attention, and you look up to the one person you don’t really want to ask for help at all despite the fact he’s in the best position to do so.

Clearing your throat you try to keep your voice steady. “Are you busy today?”

He shrugs, peering at you over his glass of water.

“Well can you do something for me?”

No answer.

“I’m going to look at an apartment, today,” you start, trying your damnedest not to get annoyed at his silence. “Well, i’ve already been approved. I think they’re going to give me my keys today.”

His oppressive gaze is starting to get to you and you just say forget it and go to put your dishes away. You can feel his eyes following you as you try to hurry it up and in your haste you drop a plate on your foot. It bounces painfully off your toes before hitting the floor and splintering into 4 perfect pieces.

“Shit,” you go, dropping to your knees to keep King’s curious ass from running right into it.

“Move.” It’s the first word he’s spoken to you since you took King out and it irritates you. You don’t know what the hell he’s been through in his life but his flippant, I’-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude is really starting to grate on your nerves. He confuses you, everything he does points to him not really caring about you but on the other hand…

It’s only been about a month and a half; you’re not expecting him to tattoo your name on his neck but if he _wants_ you to be ‘his’ then he needs to act like you _are._ And that’s the problem here. It’s where he’s running into the most trouble.

With a hard sigh you just turn away from the ceramic on the floor and start walking out.

“I’m going home,” you say. “If you wanna help me inspect this place then i’m leaving at around 1.”

Predictably, you get silence.

  


* * *

It’s 1:15 when you stop peering out of the window at the parking lot, trying not to seem too aggravated by the lack of that expensive car waiting out front. You think the implication was pretty high, thought you were pretty on point with the hinting and knowing N’Jadaka’s petty ass he’s doing this to you on purpose. It’s like he’s mad at you for being mad at him. A true stalemate.

But you foresaw this, and you called Sydney over to go with you. Kayla’s busy, but she told you to stab N’Jadaka for her if he pisses you off anymore than he has.

You probably won’t.

Sydney’s shorts are absolutely being eaten by her ass and when you ask her about them she only claims she can’t feel it. You decided to go with a skirt and a cropped tee today, and she’s been fussing about what lipstick you should wear for the past twenty minutes.

After you slap her hands away from you for the fifth time she sighs, tapping an invisible watch on her wrist at you impatiently. “I’m tryin’ to hurry you up, sis. Both of us are, right, King?”

And she lifts him up, wriggling, to prove her point. For some reason he cannot relax in Sydney’s arms, and you think it’s because he can smell her Pomeranian or something. That little yappy dog is cute but you don’t think you could ever own something so small.

You smile in appreciation at King’s new collar, black and gold with a shiny nametag with his name on it. It’s so much better than that chain N’Jadaka had on him, and it still sits in the pocket of your hoodie from earlier, tossed in the hamper.

Sydney’s on her phone as your putting all of your makeup away back in your room, and just as you finish zipping up the bag you hear a squeak of surprise. At first, you think that maybe King got too excited and bit her, but when you run out into the living room all you see is her staring wide eyed at her cell phone.

“Oh,” you mutter, going to grab your purse.

“Wait!” she shouts, hopping to her feet. “Look! That’s you!”

“What’s …’me’.”

“On theshaderoom!”

You whirl around so fast you get whiplash, nearly bowling your friend over in a mad grab for her cell phone. You don’t follow theshaderoom, never have, but sure enough the newest photo with their obnoxious watermark is of you. It’s from this morning, you walking King with your hair flipped over your shoulder in a perfect way. You’re blinking in one and open-eyed in the second, and for a moment you’re too busy admiring how good you look in the photos rather than why you’re on the damn account in the first place.

“I always look good in photos by accident,” you mutter ,scoffing, and Sydney hits you on the arm.

She yanks the phone back and reads aloud, “Mystery Honey seen walking Killmonger’s dog King early in the morning; wearing a hoodie that’s too big to be hers. Thoughts?”

You don’t know why you do it but you stomp one foot in frustration. “ _His_ dog?! _My_ dog! And _my_ hoodie! I can’t believe this.”

Sydney rolls her eyes. “C’mon bitch, you know none of these posts have real context. People want gossip! Created narratives! But I mean..”

“What?”

“You are a mystery honey, you did spend the night, you _are_ fucking him-”

“Not lately, I’m not,” you shoot, pointing a finger in her face with a smile. “But, like, why is he considered important enough to be on gossip blogs?”

She shrugs and you just attribute it to him literally being Killmonger, with all these mysterious connections and whatnot, and just as the two of you plus King are about to leave there’s a knock on the door. You already know who it is, and you’re more surprised at the fact that he could’ve easily come in without even bothering to knock.

He looks good, like always, and you hate that because it’s really hard to ban physical affection when he’s just standing there in a black hoodie and jeans looking as good as he wants to look. In fact, you almost take a step toward him once you smell that damn cologne. He looks behind you at Sydney before looking back at you and the way he raises his eyebrows implies your bestie is giving him one _hell_ of an expression.

You turn toward her with a smile and a shake of your head. Her and Kayla are always so protective of you; they’d almost stuffed your ex in a trunk when you came to them in tears after he cheated. Hell, you almost didn’t get to be upset you were so busy trying to keep them from going to jail.

“Your neighborhood needs tighter security,” you say wryly, moving past him and into the corridor. “I’ve somehow made it to shaderoom.”

N’Jadaka snorts as you lock the door, replying, “Yeah.”

“How many girls you got sending you angry messages?”

“Too damn many.”

You laugh, and so does Sydney, and before you can get into your car you feel a tug on the back of your skirt. There’s a whole wordless conversation happening here, and everything falls into place in sections. Sydney takes King and slides into the passenger’s seat while you toss the keys inside so she doesn’t suffocate. N’Jadaka, in all his wordless glory, clearly wants to talk to you but he shows it by pulling you closer to his and opening the door for you.

You sit sideways with a sigh, legs sticking out of the car as you look up at him expectantly.

“You going with me?” you ask. “Or are you here to apologize?”

He rolls his eyes before reaching down to pull you up to your feet. You’re almost face to face with him now that he’s leaning down a bit, and you only keep on with the questions.

“Or do you miss me?”

“You talk too damn much.”

“And you _do_ too damn much! Why can’t you just apologize?”

He looks at you for a long time and you swear it’s like he’s having entire arguments with himself on the inside and you wonder what about. You reach up to put your arms around his neck, staring at those frightening eyes of his with an amused smirk on your face. Men are so funny, so prideful, so unable to just admit when they’re wrong and it’s so frustrating that you just want to scream. And not only did you bag a man, you bagged _this_ man specifically. Some emotionally distant, literal villain with a past you’re too afraid to think about.

You purposefully brush your lips on his to see his reaction and to your surprise he moves in closer to kiss you but you’re quick enough to dodge. He only succeeds in kissing your shoulder. You were right, he’s ‘jonesing’ for you just as much as you are for him but luckily for you, you’re used to not getting any affection for long periods of time.

“Don’t treat me like shit,” you say to him, earnestly. “Treat me like you want me to be around you. And if you don’t want me to be around anymore then tell me. Don’t let bitchy rappers with overly processed weave sit on your lap in front of my damn face because you got mad I smiled at your cousin too damn long. I know you saw me, nigga, I ain’t stupid. ”

He’s still looking at you with that intensity, and for once you aren’t intimidated by it because you’re dead serious. You have no patience for men disrespecting you with petty slights or anything else. He can’t act like you’re not together but act with jealousy whenever you so much as entertain other men. You’re locked in a staring contest for the longest damn time before he ‘insults’ you again as he wraps himself around you. You keep your arms around his neck, expecting the hefty grip he puts on your ass. Of course he isn’t capable of normal hugs without it being half-assed or without him _grabbing_ your ass.

You decide to ask a crazy question as he reaches down to hoist you up. You have to wrap your legs around his waist to hold yourself up as his palms support the seat of your butt.  

“Have you ever gotten rid of a girl you’ve been with? Like, forever?”

It’s half a joke but you don’t expect his straight faced answer. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?!”

“She put herself in a weak position; compromised the whole plan, she had to go.”

“Wh-”

You’re just looking at him, shocked because he seems dead serious and you really hope he didn’t seriously murder a girl that thought she had a man in him and you definitely regret asking. Hesitant, you ask, “What plan? What-”

“Nah, baby, it don’t even matter,” he says, setting you down. “Tell your girl to come on if she tryin’ to go.”

The fact that he _leaves_ you at that, going around to the driver’s side while you stand there with an open mouth is outrageous. Everything he says always seems to make you pause, too afraid to ask for elaboration.

Shocked, still, you beckon Sydney over with one hand. She seems as surprised as you as she jogs over with King’s leash in hand. You can’t even do anything but shrug once she gets to you, gesturing behind you to N’Jadaka’s car.

The three of you (plus King) take the ride in silence, and it’s like Sydney is too afraid to say anything in N’Jadaka’s presence. It’s so weird hearing her so..silent, and you turn to look back at her a couple times during the ride to smile at how rigid she’s sitting. The music is loud, and he drives so damn reckless, and you’re sure by the time y’all arrive at the new apartment complex she’s nauseous. She’s always been sensitive to bad driving.

N’Jadaka swings into the only open spot in front of the Leasing Office, and you’re out the car before he can turn the ignition off. You hear him suck his teeth at you but you don’t need his ass intimidating the people in the office. The only reason he’s here is to help you scope your place out for any huge flaws in the apartment. Truthfully, you don’t know what you’ll do if something is really wrong; you may just cry.

He’s right on your ass anyways, all throughout the conversation you have with the people inside and all the way to your brand new, supposedly newly furnished, apartment. The complex is pristine, every flower and bush and hedge looking so perfect you think you’re in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Everything is so modern, the floors of the Clubhouse so shiny you can see yourself in them.

You’ve always wanted to live in an apartment building like this, but could never really find reason to break away from your comfortable, homely, current place. Not until you saw King, anyway.

The employees are in love with King when they see him, giving him treats and head rubs while he only cares about the food. He’s so into the treats in fact that you have to leave him with Sydney because he absolutely refuses to leave the office.

“Go ahead,” she says, waving y’all off. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

You nod and motion for N’Jadaka to follow you, and you can’t help but see how one of the receptionists is just watching him saunter over to where you wait by the door. She’s cute, in a stuffy business casual kind of way and she is just _drinking_ him in. It’s funny. What’s even funnier, is how his irritating ass grins at her as the two of you leave.

He scoffs when you give him a look. “Don’t start that shit with me, lil bit. Take yo own advice.”

“I’m not jealous,” you say, squinting in the bright sun. “It’s real easy for random girls to see those fangs, just not me I guess.”

“What?”

“You’ve been mean muggin’ me ever since I left that party.”

He shrugs and says, “‘Cuz you been gettin’ on my nerves.”

It takes you a second to know if he’s really serious but he bumps you and you think that means he’s joking. You just bump him back, already at the building entrance closer to your unit. It’s chilly in the small lobby, and pretty empty save for a couple chairs and few potted plants. Even still, you’re surprised it’s here at all, when it could have easily just been the elevator and janitor’s closet.

Your unit is number 504, and the first thing you look for as you walk down the long hall is dirt of any kind. The model you saw back when you first visited was pristine, with this minimalist decor that really inspired you for yours. But it’s so easy for them to show you a souped up model close to the front, but when you give them all your money and whatnot you find your apartment is a bug infested dump.

N’Jadaka moves you aside to step in first, unlocking the black door and peering in like he’s ready to throw hands with some imaginary party. His guard being up has you spooked as well so you hold onto his back in fear. “What is it?!”

He pauses for a second before going, “Nothin’.”

“Don’t do that!” you gasp, holding a hand over your heaving chest. He had you ready to jet down the hallway on the tense of his back alone. “Why’d you do that?!”

“I’m lookin’ out for yo weak ass,” he goes, opening your empty fridge. “You better act like shit about to go down whenever you walk into a new place.”

“Yeah, because a locked, empty, apartment is gonna have an assassin waiting on me.”

N’Jadaka just looks at you with this knowing expression before moving on to inspect your empty cabinets, and for a moment you have another terrified thought. Was he waiting on some unsuspecting victim in an apartment before? Or is he trying to freak you out? It’s always unclear. You’re too scared to go deeper, if he’d even let you, and you’d be forced to confront the truth of just how bad a man nicknamed Killmonger could possibly be?

Shaking the thoughts away you join him in looking over your spacious apartment. The black wood floors are so nice and clean, but you think that maybe you’ll run a swiffer over it anyway just in case. You’d gone with the one bedroom, despite the fact that your parents urged you to upgrade to two, but the rent difference made the choice for you.

The only problematic thing you find is that the only bathroom is in _your_ bedroom, so any guests would have to go through it to use it. It’s fine, just not a preference.

But still, you’re very excited to have a place that looks so sleek and new, and you’d be able to have King with you (for a recurring fee). Despite the fact that you want Zeus, there’s no way your parents will be cool with you taking him. He’s as much their dog as yours.

You’re in the bathroom, touching up your makeup with an blotting sheet and minding your whole business when N’Jadaka steps in behind you. The bathroom is pretty nicely sized for a one bedroom but even still, his presence just fills the space immediately. He doesn’t even speak, just lifts your skirt up to do what he does best.

“So you ain’t wearin’ them old lady shits today?”

“Cotton briefs aren’t old lady ‘shits’,” you say, exasperated. “I wear them all the time. You used to girls wearing scratchy lace and shit all the time?”

“Maybe I am,” he says. “Maybe I need to teach you how to dress for me.”

You roll your eyes, being reminded of your ex’s opinion on your panties, and how they were never sexy enough for him. The lacy things you own are solely for when you plan on getting some. Days when you’re just lounging around or going out to run errands are solely for breathable cotton.

“You know,” you start, turning around to face him. “I don’t really feel like explaining to you how pussies work, or that they need to _breathe,_ N’Jadaka.”

“I know how they work, smart ass,” he goes. “I better be the only nigga that knows how _yo_ shit work.”

And he punctuates it with a harsh point of his commitment issue having finger in your face. You slap his hand away and it falls, right to your hips. The other finds its way there and then you’re lifted up to sit on the sink. He’s not forgiven by any means, not until he shows you a bit more, but you’re too tired of this vow of celibacy. If you were your friends, they’d have found a dude to fuck the same day you fell out with him but you’re not them.

And nobody has a tongue like the fool dropping to the floor in front of you. He’s still much higher than you are, so he has to bend his neck down a bit to get to you. He gives you that look as he’s pulling your more stylish, cotton bikini down,before saying, “You done actin’ up?”

“ _You_ done actin’ up?” You repeat, watching him hoist your legs up on his shoulders. He grips you roughly in response, quickly letting you know how damn difficult it is to act above it all with his mouth on you like this. In fact, it gets increasingly hard not to turn into a pitiful, writhing mess on your new bathroom sink and the apartment’s emptiness is making your gasps echo throughout. You have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming and you’re torn between not wanting him to get the satisfaction of tasting you and you missing the feeling. That’s the problem, you want to punish him so bad by not letting him touch you for a while but Lord above you don’t have the conviction.

“Ugh, _fuck,”_ you go, grabbing a handful of his hair. It must be too hard or maybe your nails scratch him because he suddenly smacks you on the outer thigh and you gasp again.

And maybe as revenge he gets you _right_ to the edge of orgasm, where you’re basically choking him out with how your legs are wrapped around his neck, before stopping. He just stops, standing up to leer at you in a way that lets you know this nigga _definitely_ did that to you on purpose and you have to force yourself from paying attention to how wet his lips are from you. Them shits are _glistening._

Slowly, too slowly, he leans closer to you and you’re mad at how bad you want to kiss him and he knows that. You’re almost whining when he smirks at you.

“Yo pussy taste like strawberries.”

“ _Oh my god,”_ you mouth, pressing your hands to your face. She’s supposed to be on lockdown mode but your poor, defenseless Miss Thing down there is having a whole damn fit at that one sentence and you just want him to put you through the wall.

At this point you can hear Sydney bamming on the door in her innocently obnoxious way and you thank the lord for the interruption.

You point at him, making sure to give him a vicious glare as you pray there are kleenex in your purse to clean you up. He may have won this one, but you _know_ he’s fiending hard for you even if he wants to act like it’s only you wanting him.

“I can’t stand you,” you mutter, pushing past him. You feel so nasty walking around with your panties in your hands but you need to find something quick.

Sydney has King in her hands when you open the door, shaking her head at you with a knowing smirk. You’re kind of sick of that expression at this point and you only roll your eyes at her as she glances between the two of you.

“Y’all are nasty,” she says, right before shooting you a look that personally tells you you’re a dickmatized thot that needs to keep it locked down until N’Jadaka does better. And to top it all off, she adds a ‘ _hm,’_ a word which here means, _‘You got that expensive ass sex toy with the interchangeable heads you better use that shit until he acts right.’_

Facts, but she didn’t have to read you like that with one look and a puppy in her hands.

  


  


 


	12. oops (oh my)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a 'reader' fic I really try to keep concrete physical attributes blank or implied (other than the reader being black obviously) but for the sake of not having BLANK ____ during certain paragraphs please bear with me for the ones I have listed sgrkdf. (If you don't have a fat ass that's cool, neither do i, but lets pretend we do for the sake of this story lmaoo. Or have hair long enough to braid/twist up! Or if you're actually taller than Erik/N'Jadaka).

You come to the conclusion, when it’s 1 in the morning and you accidentally snap the head off that expensive over-complicated sex toy trying to figure out how it works that you can’t take it anymore. You’re sick of being mad, you’re sick of wasting energy, and you’re sick of not having N’Jadaka’s fine ass blowing your back out.

Both your friends are on two separate sides of the spectrum. One on side Kayla thinks that you should just keep on keeping on unless he does something else fucked up to you, and on the other Sydney thinks you should pay him no attention until he does extra right by you.

But you  _really_ miss him and his nicknames. And maybe you miss being sore in the mornings. Kayla’s idea makes more sense.

You groan, disturbing King who’s been sleeping at the foot of your bed, despite the fact that he has a perfectly good dog bed in the corner of your room. You’ve started to pack your stuff up, and your apartment is full of Home Depot boxes and bags.

King hops up to come over to you, flopping down with his head on your chest and you have to apologize in advance. “King, I’m sorry boy but you’re gonna have to get caged in the living room in a minute.”

And it’s so funny because it’s like he understands you, voicing his irritation by whining and nipping at your hand as you try and pet him. But it’s too late, you’re already unlocking your phone and tapping a simple message with a nasty ass implication.

_Come over, please. - You_

Leaving it at that, you go to get up to the bathroom but the phone buzzes with a reply immediately.

_What I tell you about beggin - N_

_So being polite is begging now? - You_

The two of you end up bickering back and forth over text, and by the time it migrates to an actual phone call you really wonder why you bothered in the first place. He keeps saying stuff in Xhosa to make you mad, only not to tell you what it means when you ask. You keep alternating between laughing and insulting him, and suddenly it’s 3 AM and you’re exhausted.

Your eyelids are heavy as you lay on your back, holding the phone up to your ear despite the fact that neither of you are talking. Still, he’s on the other side because you can hear shuffling and the sounds of the tv in the background. God, do you wish you were in his bed; not even for sex anymore but just for the fact that it’s absolutely the best mattress you’ve ever slept on. It supports your back perfectly and you never wake up with any pains.

“So are you coming over?” you ask sleepily, probably sounding like you’ve smoked the holiest of blunts.

“I’m busy, lil bit,” N’Jadaka says, chuckling at you. “I got you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?! C’mon, NJ, what about tomorrow afternoon?”

“‘NJ’, huh,” he goes, sounding amused.

In your defense you’re a little sick of saying his name, and self-conscious about your pronunciation. You just laugh it off. “Your name is hard to pronounce and you always make fun of me for saying it weird.”

He doesn’t say anything, only chuckling at you again.

There’s more silence, and you’re biting your lip hard as you think about what you want to do tonight. Your brain is telling you to go to sleep, but it’s also unable to stay that way because of the complete disaster your apartment is at the moment. There’s just shit everywhere and all of your clothes are either in boxes or stuffed in various tote bags around your room.

He suddenly says, “That’s real cute,” in a way that you think he’s making fun of you.

“What’s real cute?”

“You sound all loopy and shit,” he goes. “Too bad yo lil smart ass don’t act like you sound.”

“Fuck you.”

On his end of the phone there’s the distinct sound of a garage door opening and the rumble of his car. You haven’t been in his garage before, but you have caught a glimpse of all the workout equipment inside. N’Jadaka’s physique is out of this world, and you know he weighs a  _lot_ if the way you felt when he rolled over on you was any indication. It’s like you were being flattened.

You hum boredly, phone still up to your ear, already admitting defeat because you just know you’re going to be laying here until the sun comes out, wrecked until you inhale 8 cups of coffee.

“Okay,” you mumble halfheartedly, pouting to yourself. Maybe you’ll watch cute animal videos to fall asleep to; your tv is out of commission and that cable is currently waiting in your new place. “Guess I’ll hang up.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, only grunting at something you obviously can’t see, before saying, “Aight, baby, come through.”

It takes you a second to realize that he’s said anything and another second to whine childishly at the fact that you are in absolutely no condition to drive to his side of town. He just had to let you get like this, when all he had to do was tell you to come over a couple hours ago.

“I can’t drive,” you say. “I’m too sleepy.”

You can practically hear him shrug in that flippant way. “Then I don’t know what to tell you, lil bit.”

He hangs up then, leaving you alone with your budding exhaustion headache and dry eyes. There’s no way you’ll be able to sleep in here, you’re positive, so with a hard sigh you peel yourself off the bed and start packing an overnight bag. You start tossing stuff into a PINK tote, an outfit, toiletries, and a bag of treats for King that you hope you don’t accidentally eat. And speaking of him, you almost forget he’s there, and you make it all the way to the front door before rushing back inside to grab him off the foot of your bed where he was sleeping.

At least someone is getting rest.

* * *

 

When N’Jadaka opens the door for you, you immediately go in for a hug as King takes off into his house. He pulls you inside so he can close the door, but you only hold on tighter, hopping up to wrap your legs around his waist.

“Thought you was mad,” he says, putting in the code for the alarm.

“I was,” you mumble into his neck. “I _am,_ but I’m done acting mad. Just know that you get one more chance to piss me off. Final warning.”

You pause.

“Thought you were busy?” you ask.

“Change of plans.”

For so long you’d made yourself angry dealing with the aftermath of what your ex did to you, stewing in it and not allowing yourself to see past that cloud of misery. And sure, it’s not like you’re saying N’Jadaka _doesn’t_ have you fucked up for that stunt, but you just don’t feel like putting energy into thinking about it anymore. It’s just that if he disrespects you like that again, you’re out.

But for now you’re content with him carrying you up the stairs, walking extremely slow because King keeps zipping around his feet. It’s funny how a dog so afraid to go down the stairs is fine going up them. Almost immediately he gets into the kennel sitting in N’Jadaka’s bedroom, curling up on the plush dog bed and resting his head on his paws.

N’Jadaka tries to pull you off him but you stay right where you are, legs tightening their hold around him and you half expect him to just toss you. Instead, he puts those arms around you and surprises you by hugging you like he actually wants to. This is what you wanted from him most of all, just some sort of affection without any kind of sexual lean. Hell, he always kissed you like a lover the least he could do was hug you like one.

But he manages to ruin it, unsurprisingly. “You smell like outside.”

You suck your teeth and pull away to look at him. “Then put me down.”

Then he lets you go, and your weak grip takes you right to the floor with a _thud._ King comes running over to you because dogs always come to see if you’re okay, but you’re too busy laughing in disbelief to pay him any attention.  

“I can’t stand you,” you say, standing up.

“Can’t stand yo ass either.”

From the time you were a kid, one phrase always rang true whenever somebody said it. ‘You smell like outside’ is interchangeable with ‘wet dog’ or maybe just ‘you stink’ if the person is rude enough to say it. Either way it means take a shower, even though you took one about 6 hours ago. You kind of feel like a bath, though, and ever since you first saw the master bathroom that giant tub has been calling to you.

It smells like body wash in the bathroom, judging by the steamed up doors on the shower, he’d recently taken one. It’s funny, he doesn’t seem like the bath-taking type, despite the fact that his bathtub is big enough to fit three or so people. The water comes out so hot the second you turn the faucet and it reminds you of the burns you got making that seafood boil for your friends.

Speaking of which.

“Hey,” you call out, sitting on the edge of the tub. “How did you like my seafood?”

N’Jadaka doesn’t answer, and just as you go to repeat yourself he shouts, “What?”

“My cooking,” you’re standing in the doorway now, watching him go through channels on the tv. “The seafood I made, remember? Did you like it?”

“Oh yeah,” he goes. “It was aight.”

“Why do I ask you anything?” you ask, half to him and half to the universe as you turn to feel the bathwater. “You know it was good, you just never wanna admit you like stuff about me.”

He opens his mouth to say something but you quickly cut him off.

“ _Other_ than my vagina.”

You shake your head and laugh, going to your tote to find the paper bag with the last bath bomb you bought. It’s Sex Bomb, you’re so addicted to the smell of Jasmine and whatever else is in it that you’d gone and bought about 8 of them. There’s something about the color of the water and the scent that fills the bathroom that makes it so romantic. You can hardly wait, and it isn’t even done fizzing before you’re peeling off clothes.

That’s when N’Jadaka appears, staring at the bathtub in confusion before looking to you like you broke something. “So you just gon’ stain my shit pink.”

“No, fool,” you go, pulling off your shirt. “Can you help me pull my hair up?”

Putting long braids or twists into a bun is hell on your arms and you always relish in the opportunity to get someone else to do it.  You already have your ‘hair tie’ ready (actually an elastic headband) and you hand it to him before turning to face the tub.

First you feel his hands on your hair, brushing all of your twists to the back, and you shiver at the feeling of his rough fingers on you. Your skin erupts in goosebumps and you’re trembling like it’s 20 degrees in this damn bathroom. Maybe Sydney is right in that you’ve been ‘dickmatized’, but dammit maybe you all need to be under the influence once in your lives. As nasty and sad as it is you’re about ready to bend over but that bathwater isn’t going to stay warm forever.

He pushes you forward a bit, telling you to hurry up, before leaving you alone with a tight bun on the back of your head. He turns the light off once he gets back into the bedroom, and you all but dive your ass into the tub. Your exhaustion told you to go ahead and have fun, and that’s what you plan on doing.

At first, anyway.

Your spirit is real crushed when you come out the bathroom with a towel wrapped around you, only to find N’Jadaka snoring like he didn’t imply he was going to wreck you when you came out the tub. He’s asleep on his back with one arm over his face, and when you approach, you can’t do anything but pout. Maybe you are a crybaby, but damn.

Now it’s pushing 5 am, and some weird televangelist infomercial about special water curing someone’s inability to walk is on tv, and that only means one thing. When the infomercials come on, it’s time to take your ass to bed or get up and get ready for work.

The bed dips as you get into it, still wearing a towel,  and what a waste that so called ‘aphrodisiac’ was. The description on the site waxes poetic about the scents all being natural aphrodisiacs and at first you were excited at the thought. It smells so heavenly, your skin is silky to the touch and all of it is wasted on a man that doesn’t stir when you climb over him and to the other side of the bed.

You lay on your side facing the closed window, trying not to throw a whole temper tantrum at the fact that you aren’t getting any tonight. You were clean! Maybe your hair smelled like ‘outside’ but dammit you were daisy fresh everywhere else and all he had to do was go ahead and get on with it. Bitch ass.

Your ears are ringing it’s so quiet, and since you can’t sleep you go ahead and try and maybe find some movie channel to add some noise into the room. The sheets are a mess, the comforter half down on one side and up on the other, and that makes it really hard to find where the small black remote is. It could be anywhere underneath N’Jadaka’s ass, and just as you reach over him to feel on the other side of the bed it’s like the world goes dark shit happens so fast.

Maybe you disturbed him, or maybe he was having a fucked-up dream, because the second your arm goes over him he hops up like you’re trying to kill him and he wants to get to you first. You scream in surprise as he pins you down, hands gripping you so hard you know you’ll bruise. He’s breathing hard and hemming you up like the damn police, and he isn’t letting go, and for a second you wonder if this fool is really about to kill you.

Once in college you ran into a woman who once said she fucked Wolverine. You were seriously doubting her story until she claimed he’d had a nightmare after they’d slept together and nearly took her head clean off by accident when she tried to wake him up. Why lie about that? You’re sure that man’s been through a hell of a lot to have springtrap dreams, and you aren’t doubting the possibility of N’Jadaka having one as well.

That vice grip he has on your neck is 8,000 miles away from the rather pleasurable one he put on you that one time, and you’re so shocked you can’t even form words to tell him to get off you.

It’s dark in the room, the minimal lighting coming from the tv isn’t helping you much at all. Not until a oxygen tank commercial comes on with a white background, lighting up the entire bedroom with a flash and right as he squints you reach up and smack him. Of course, his face doesn’t move, but it’s like he wakes up then because he’s off you and back to a sitting position. His breath is coming out in harsh pants, and you’re stuck staring at the way his chest is heaving, horrified at what just happened.

You’re trembling, hand feeling your sore neck for what you _know_ will be some ugly ass bruising that you’ll have to explain to someone if they look close enough. One of the many, many, wonderful perks of having brown skin is how much harder bruises have to try to be visible. But damn, he was in total kill mode just now so you might have to go find some thin turtlenecks.

N’Jadaka’s head snaps up suddenly, as if he forgot you were there, and you involuntarily flinch when he moves closer to you. He grabs you by the arm anyway, using his other hand to tap the bedside lamp light enough for it to come on at half brightness.

Your bun has come loose, so he has to move your hair out of the way to inspect your aching neck with both hands.

“You good?” he finally asks, looking you in the eyes.

“No!” you shout, still shaking. “You almost killed me! What the fuck was _that!_ ”

He apologizes in his own special way (telling you to stop whining) and gives you a rough kiss for the trouble. You come to the conclusion that if you don’t get off him, you won’t get choked up if he has another bad dream. The worst he could do is toss you across the room you guess, but that’s better than fearing for your life. He’s on the same page, gripping you tight and hoisting that leg over him. He’s a fan of putting you in this position, you guess.

The lights go off but you’re still full of adrenaline; your heart is pounding furiously in your chest and you can’t do anything to calm it down.

“Relax,” he goes, patting your butt.

“Give me a second,” you reply, trying to get comfortable. “I mean you did just choke me. The least  you could do is give me _something.”_

“I got you in the morning.”

Someone, or something, is blocking you. You just know it.  It’s probably that B chick.

* * *

 

You wake up on the floor. One arm is up like you tried to catch yourself and your face is damn near in between the bed and the nightstand. Your joints ache as you move; you must have been like this a while, and when you squint over the bed you see the Fool sleeping like nothing happened. And something clearly happened. Either he tossed you off him in a nightmare-induced stupor, or you just rolled off him at some point in the last couple hours. Either way, the fact that the impact didn’t wake him up, or King, is hilarious and you stand up feeling like you ran a couple miles.

The towel you had on is still on the bed and you wander sleepily around, butt naked, to find your tote bag. It’s still in the bathroom on the sink, and while you’re at it you hurry up and brush your teeth. You half expect N’Jadaka to look over and find something to say about your butt but after you pull up a pair of boyshorts and a tee, you find him still knocked out.

He said he had you in the morning, it’s the morning.

“Wake up,” you say quietly, hesitantly crawling ontop of him. He doesn’t move, but at least you aren’t being fought like you stole something. You remember, though, when you tried on that expensive red lipstick he couldn’t hide that groan he let out when you kissed his neck and isn’t that hilarious? It’s always the hard motherfuckers who pretend they don’t get all weak when girls rub up on them. They never give the girl a chance to do anything.

You repeat yourself, running your hands over his chest, but again you get nothing. This entire ordeal is frustrating your horny ass and all you want, is for him to wake the hell up. You’re not going to be creepy with it, at least you don’t hope the kisses you’re planting on his neck are creepy. That would make you obviously...feel creepy.

He’s radiating heat like a furnace, and it’s making you hot as well. Not hot in a good way, but hot in a way that if this keeps up you’re going to have to go to the bathroom.

  
“Wake _up._ ”

The final kiss you put on his cheek seems to do the trick but rather than, you don’t know, do literally anything else he only rolls you off him with his eyebrows knitted close together. Rubbing sleep from his eyes he immediately feels around for his cell phone (it’d been buzzing the past 3 hours),  while you watch, offended. He opens a text and sure you’re not trying to be nosy but you have no choice but to gag at the very obvious lingerie pic that pops up.

He grunts as you harshly throw yourself over him to grab the phone to see just who this chick with the same Victoria’s Secret negligee that N’Jadaka ripped off you a month ago is. Seems you adn ‘B’ have similar taste.

“Why is she sending you thotty pictures?” you ask, scrolling through all of them in your most brazen act yet.

“Why you lookin’ through my phone?”

“Don’t change the subject, nigga, answer me!” They just keep getting more and more revealing, and by the sixth one you’ve seen more of this woman than you think you ever want to. Your bodies are similar, you think. N’Jadaka has a type.

You look at him with an eyebrow raised and he just huffs. “I ain’t ask for it, so calm all that shit down.”

“Unsolicited tit pics,” you say, humming. “Maybe you need to tell her to go find some other man to send these to, since she seems to think I don’t exist. Outside of gossip instagram accounts.”

“Don’t nobody know yo weird ass exists,” he says, setting his phone back down.

With a roll of your eyes, you say, “Well they wouldn’t, would they? Since i’m ‘not your girlfriend.’ You still haven’t taken me on a date. ”

He tells you he’s got you on his next ‘day off’ before moving you off him again and standing up. You watch him go to the bathroom and leave the door open like somebody with no home training, but the most important tumor on your insecure thoughts is B. There was nothing really incriminating in the conversation, which is why you’re assuming N’Jadaka didn’t throw a fit at you for looking. There was just her and her constant emoji usage, and a winky smiling face after a charged _‘you so goofy’_ from her end before the selfies being sent this morning. You’re going to need N’Jadaka’s ass to make it known to one of these chicks out here thirsting after him that he’s currently occupied.

And that King is _not_ that nigga’s dog.

The sound of him spitting out mouthwash snap you out of your irritated thoughts, and you look over at the time with a disappointed whine. It’s only about 8 even though the blackout curtains are currently making it seem like it’s midnight.

“Where are you going?” you ask, trying not to seem too desperate. Why isn’t he acting like he wants you in any facet you wonder. There’s no way he can hold out longer than you can.

He snaps at King to follow him out the bedroom and that answers your question.

This man has you going crazy thinking about the last time he touched you and you can’t deal with it. It’s so hard for you to do anything else while he’s gone. You can’t get up to get dressed, can’t roll over and go back to sleep, can’t do literally anything but stare at the ceiling with an absolutely painful ache between your legs and a frown on your face. For him to have this effect on you, the scene from _Ghost_ comes to mind when Whoopi Goldberg looks at Demi Moore and says: _Molly, you in danger, girl._

The door shuts hard and you jump as N’Jadaka returns with no adorable dog in tow. The scratching on the door lets you know King is in the hallway and you’re not surprised when N’Jadaka snaps at him to stop it. King stops it alright, but he lets loose a hilarious bark like he’s responding to being yelled at.

“Stop yelling at my dog.”

“Go put that lil nigga in obedience class, then.”

That sounds like a good idea, mostly because you don’t have the patience for training puppies. You’d tried to do it with Zeus but after he decided to go ‘fuck what you say’ and tackle you to the ground so he could take the treats from you,  you gave up. King may be more chill than Zeus is but you can tell he may be just as much of a handful. As in, not paying you any kinds of attention.

N’Jadaka checks his phone again before tossing it back on the nightstand and getting back in bed. You watch him pull the sheets over himself before giving you his back as he faces the other direction and you can’t take it anymore.

“You said you got me in the morning, it’s the morning!”

Sometimes good sex throws all that pride out the window.

He chuckles before rolling over to give you a cocky look before he says, “I already got you spoiled, huh.”

“Maybe you do.”

“C’mere, then, crybaby.”

You don’t even care that he calls you this anymore, adding it to the infinite number of nicknames he has for you at this point. Sure, you’ll be a crybaby, goofy, weird, anything else to get you where you currently are: laid up between his legs while he tries to wrangle your hair into a ponytail. His is just as wild as ever, just how you like it, and you can’t keep your hands out of it even when he tells you to get on all fours.

A quickie wasn’t really what you had in mind, and the lack of foreplay is a little disappointing but you do as he says, facing the window and bracing for that damn impact of his. Maybe you imagine it and maybe you don’t, but as your boyshorts come down you swear you hear him mutter something about ‘missing his pussy’ and that almost has you trembling right there.

He suddenly taps your back roughly, pushing your shirt up, but you don’t know what that means.

“Down,” he goes, impatiently.

“What?”

He pushes your back this time, your face being pressed into the bedsheets with your ass arched straight in the air. This one is new; usually when he gets you from the back you only do this when you’re too weak to support yourself anymore. You hear him talking quietly behind you, nd you wish you could hear him because it definitely might help to get you more in the mood.

“God _damn._ ”

Perfect! You’re glad he can’t see you cheesing right now, he’d definitely be laughing at you. But you aren’t cheesing for long, because you suddenly feel the flat of his tongue on you, hot and wet and it has you moaning from so deep in your throat you think you sound like a cow. You’ve never been eaten out from the back before, and you honest-to-God can’t believe you’ve missed out on this. Both Sydney and Kayla’s hoe asses are getting an earful from you for withholding this information from you during all of your girl talks because this shit here? You’d be singing like Toni Braxton if you had the ability.

Instead, all you can do is revert to your normal ‘ _oh my gods’_ and try to keep from moving away too much but you can’t help it.

“Stop fuckin’ runnin’,” he hisses at you.

“I can’t hold this position anymore,” you say, eyes screwed shut. Your legs are trembling so hard they’re starting to cramp and N’Jadaka gets rid of this little problem for you by pulling you down, harshly, by the thighs.

You look down in confusion at what you’re feeling, see that you’re sitting on his face, and immediately try to get up but he won’t let you. This is a first for you as well, and you’re paranoid about smothering him by accident despite the fact he could literally throw you out the window with barely any effort. You learn quickly to not move unless he tells you to; it’s a road straight to sore thighs. It’s like he’s starving for the taste of you, and you can do little else but throw your head back and hold it there, frozen as you try to keep your eyes from rolling too far back into your head.

Though you’re too embarrassed to look down that often you do chance a look down once you’re sure you’re about to cum, and when you do he happens to be looking straight up at you. He doesn’t say anything, or maybe he can’t right now, but it doesn’t matter because his skills has you jerking against his face with absolutely no control of your own body.

You bet this fool can tie cherry stems with his tongue.

He pushes you off him while you’re still convulsing and you flop tiredly on your back, squeezing both thighs together in an effort to stop yourself from shaking so much. You’ve always hated how you basically seize up during orgasms, because you’re sure it doesn’t look too flattering on your end.

You can count all the times you’ve slept together, and every time there’s been a constant you’ve noticed in one form or another. One, he is fond of smacking your ass almost every chance he gets and after the fifth time you hate it because it starts stinging. Two, he gets really mad when you don’t listen, but mad in a way that almost had you calling him ‘daddy’ despite your rules against doing so. Then there’s three; he will, without a doubt, always stick his tongue in your mouth after eating you out even if you have total near-stroke face going on.  His kisses make your mouth tired and that’s tea.

It seems like he did actually really miss you, in this way at least, because his hands are gripping your face so tight as the two of you kiss it’s like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t. You can’t really breathe but you don’t care one bit as you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his torso. If he thinks he’s moving he’s out of his mind.

He finally gives you a break by trailing kisses down your neck and collarbone, allowing you to come up for air for the first time in what feels like 5 minutes. You lean up and watch the muscles in his back move as he does and you’re just envious. Envious that he’s so good at bringing pleasure to you with such little effort. Just his looks and dirty words at you are enough. And sure,you assume he feels good when he’s inside you by the looks on his face and the sounds he makes but you’re a little annoyed you can’t do more.

N’Jadaka’s idea of ‘helping’ you learn how to give head didn’t amount to more than those erotic photos of you, and you wish you knew how without gagging violently on him to the point he all but knocks you away out of fear of you puking on his dick. You might actually die if it happened, and God would just have to be okay with the fact that you got to Heaven that way.

You’re so deep in thought you don’t realize what he’s doing until you feel a sting on your left nipple that only goes away once you look at him with a frown. “Ouch.”

“Pay attention,” he snaps, your left breast shiny with spit. “Quit that daydreamin’ shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

He sucks his teeth, because he knows you aren’t _really,_ but he goes right on back to giving your chest the attention he rarely does. Usually he’s so focused on your behind.

Unfortunately, it starts putting you to sleep and you’re sure he’s enjoying this more than you because he just won’t take his mouth off either one of your breasts and if he doesn’t cut it out you’re about to knock right out. It feels really good, but you want what you want right now. You want him.

“You’re taking too long,” you complain to the ceiling, arching your back to disturb him. “Can you hurry up?”

He looks at you like you gave him a winning lottery number before going, “Bet.”

“Bet?”

“I’m tired as fuck,” he says, shrugging as he pulls you toward the edge of the bed. “I ain’t even get hard till like 35 seconds ago.”

You have absolutely no idea how to respond to his statement other than to laugh, even as he painfully bends your legs back so they’re basically touching your chest. You’d thought his lazy movements were due to him just being lazy but now that you think about it, he does seem tired. He seemed so over the phone before deciding last second to invite you over, and it’s obvious in the puffy bags under his eyes. What does he do when he disappears, you wonder?

There’s something else you wonder about, too, and you see it again as he stands over you. It looks like a healed over scar, long and about an inch or so wide on the upper left side of his abdomen and frankly you’re surprised you even saw it among all the self-made scars lined up on his body.

Pointing, you ask, “Where’s that from?”

He doesn’t even look to see what you’re gesturing to before he answers. Seems he already knows. “Stab wound.”

“What’d you get stabbed with?! A spear?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“But why? Who stabbed you?”

“Listen, baby, either you want this dick or you want stories. Pick one.”

You roll your eyes, because your spoiled ass wants both, but you decide to leave it alone for now and keep on with this lazy, half-assed sex. In any other context, you’d almost call his slow thrusts ‘loving,’ but you know it’s because he’s halfway conscious. He’s got you in that sideways leg hitched over your other position again, fantastic, and this lack of speed is definitely not lack of sensation. If anything he feels so much better like this, in a different way.

With your face pressed to the bed and your hands clenched into fists you’re surprised he doesn’t have anything to say about you not looking at him like usual. Sometimes you’d rather not look him in the eye to be honest. It’s always like he’s undressing you mentally, like he’s trying to read your thoughts or see what your secret weaknesses are. It seems dramatic, but he _has_ to be good at stuff like that.

You chance a look at him anyway, and you almost want to get up at what you see in front of you.

“I know you are _not_ filming me.”

He is filming you though, one hand gripping your hip and the other on his cell phone and all you know is that you’re kicking his ass if you somehow end up as some faceless chick on PornHub with a misleading, gross title. By now, N’Jadaka has to have a pretty good collection of incriminating stuff of you in his phone, and while your face wasn’t in anything save for the photos you can’t help but feel terrified of someone that isn’t him seeing.

You go to open your mouth again but he suddenly tosses the phone to the bed and gives you a look that shuts you up. “You talk too much.”

“Did I ruin the recording?” you ask, feigning ignorance. “I apologize.”

He ‘shhs’ you before reaching down to pull you up by one arm. Once you’re leaning up and looking at him like he’s crazy he takes the chance to completely pick you up and you get a little excited at this new position. You’ve never been taken standing up before.

And you still haven’t, because N’Jadaka’s just moving you so he can get on his back  and make you do all the work. Typical.

“Ride this shit out, lil bit,” he says, giving you a sideways smirk.

“Lazy ass.”

He just redirects your insult, calling you just as lazy for not really putting it on him like you could in this position. You basically watch the gears turn in his mind, just waiting on him to say some petty shit about past lovers to make you jealous. It’s crazy how perceptive you’re becoming, you think.

“I don’t care about who did it better than me,” you say, cutting him off before he even starts. “I’m bad at this. Bad at everything, and either you have some kind of fetish for taking care of women or there’s _something_ about me you really like.”

At first he just looks at you, eyes narrowing ever so slightly and you wonder if your little teasing poked at a couple nerves. You’re being honest though, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand that the man in front of you has commitment issues. He’s probably never been in a real relationship in his life; flighty, impulsive can’t sit still because he’s too busy trying to do other things. Like trying to overthrow a foreign infrastructure. You still don’t know ‘why’, but you’ll figure it out soon. You just know you will.

His silence starts to unnerve you a bit so you try to clear the air with a corny quip: “Well I think you’re just _swell,_ also, sir. Sometimes. When you’re not pissing me off.”

Truthfully, you’ve never used the word ‘swell’ in an actual sentence and the fact that it just came out of your mouth makes you laugh more than it should. N’Jadaka may pretend to be all stern and shit but you can clearly see a corner of his mouth turning up as he watches you snort laugh with a hand in front of your mouth.

If someone told you half a year ago that you’d be sitting on the dick of some royal killer, laughing hysterically at the fact that the word ‘swell’ passed through your lips you’d tell them to pass you whatever they’d been smoking beforehand.

Life is crazy.

  


* * *

 

 

On a Saturday afternoon, dressed in your best sports bra and leggings combo while the unforgiving sun blazes down on you, you regret every nice thought you’ve had about the dread-headed man hauling a couch down the hallway.

He complained forever about having to help you move furniture, despite the fact that he said he would (favors promised during sex still count), and every time he glances down at his phone you want to scream.

“Erik, please,” you say tiredly, thankful that your girls are around to give you a break from saying his real name. You’re so hyper-aware of how you say it, you know you sound silly. Maybe he’ll let you call him by some nickname; like the hundreds he has for you. Lil Bit, Goofy Ass, Crybaby, Baby by itsself, Baby Girl sometimes, Princess, Mean, Weird, he could pick anything. Finding something for him is a little bit tricky, though.

Right now you’re thinking ‘Bastard.’

“Don’t rush me,” he snaps at you, despite the fact that he’s carrying the couch with minimal effort. “Move.”

You move to the side with a roll of your eyes, shaking your head as he drags part of your couch into your open apartment and sets it roughly down in the living room. The other half has been sitting inside already, and you’re really happy you don’t have much as far as heavy items or else you’d be here all day.

He’s been really moody all morning, and for it to be your move-in day is just a shitty coincidence. Kayla and Sydney have been taking boxes into your bedroom and they both give you a look as you approach N’Jadaka at the patio doors.

His back is to you, and you don’t know if he’s staring out of the blinds or down at his phone and when you approach he starts like he’s about to move out of the way. You get your arms around his middle before that happens, pressing your cheek into his back.

“Do I have to go hire those buff dudes from upstairs to help me move?”

He sucks his teeth at you.

“C’mon,” you say. “Why are you acting like a bitch today? You _promised_ me last night-”

“Yeah well I probably said a lot of shit with you throwin’ it back like that on a nigga.”

Last night was pretty amazing, all things considered, even if it started off embarrassing. Your girls dragged you to a club again and got you so thoroughly lit you ended up dancing on top of the bar until security grabbed you by the waist and yanked you off. You hardly remember anything else, other than throwing up half your high into the handicap stall and accidentally telling your Uber to take you to N’Jadaka’s place instead of yours. He wasn’t home and you sat on his porch, bored as hell for what felt like 24 hours until that gorgeous car came rumbling into view.

He called you messy but invited you inside anyway and the two of you took like eight shots and had even messier Hennessey-laced sex that had you waking up with a couple bruises and a dent in his wall from the bedframe slamming into it.

That’s besides the point.

You squeeze tighter, although with your arm strength and his muscles you doubt you’re doing much. He swats you away like an annoying fly and at this point you circle around him to look him in the face. Saying he looks ‘angry’ is an understatement.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask, honestly confused. “Did I do something?”

He rolls his eyes at you as if he’s annoyed you ask before giving you a subtle shake of the head. “Nah.”

“Family problems?” you offer, shrugging.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Oh.”

You stand  there, awkwardly, trying to figure out if you should leave him alone or try and do something that people in sort-of relationships do. You’re bad at this type of stuff, and so is he you guess. Last night your drunk ass got ridiculously heartfelt when you thanked him for getting you aspirin after noticing you rubbing your temple, and it looked like he was going to throw you out for looking at him like that. _Quit with all that corny shit, shut up._

Behind the two of you, Kayla and Sydney are sticking their heads out of  your bedroom to peek in at what’s happening and that gives you the push to finish what you started.

“Okay,” you start, nudging him as you pass. “You’re free to go, sir.”

You hear him blow air out harshly through his nose but you don’t know what that means. You’d kiss him if you felt like climbing his ass right about now. But there’s stuff to do and things to move today. By the end of it all you’re going to be sleeping on your couch and staring at the tv; at least until your mattress comes in on Monday.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think that he was guilt buying you stuff. He’s been sliding you even more money than usual, and even a card that you had to outright refuse to have because your ass is constantly losing cards.

N’Jadaka sits right on down on your newly moved couch, slouching and spreading his legs all the way out like men do and just...broods. That’s the best word you can find to describe the way he’s just glaring at nothing with his arms folded and it almost makes you laugh. He’s radiating such a Kill vibe that you can tell it’s making your girls uncomfortable and for that you really need him to dial it back a bit. He doesn’t move when you go to sit next to him, only shifting his eyes to you.

“What.”

“When I said you’re ‘free to go,’ I meant it,” you say, snorting. “You can leave if you want, don’t feel obligated to stay around and look like you’re about to kill everyone in the room.”

He flat out tells you what’s on his mind and past the absurdity of it, you have to admire his honesty when he says flatly, “I ain’t leavin’ until yo ass is limpin’.”

“Well, okay, damn.”

Behind you, Kayla and Sydney are cracking up and you can’t help but join in as you get up to continue working. And while it does sound great to get some after your moving is all done, the idea of being used for his stress relief doesn’t sound nice. You’re about to be bedridden for a week and a half if he’s as mad as he seems.

By the time you’re done getting all of the boxes out of the truck you’re forced to put King in the kennel in your bedroom, he’s too focused on darting out into the hallway whenever someone walks past. The words ‘i’m sorry’ don’t sound real anymore after the hundredth time you’ve said it to the poor old woman he spooked. Thank the Lord it wasn’t Zeus. You’d be paying for funeral costs.

You’re standing in the cool hallway with Sydney and Kayla trying to discuss lunch, and all they want is sushi. It’s funny that they mention it considering all they ever eat are the entry-level California Rolls. Once you tried to get them to try raw salmon and Kayla basically retched at the texture alone. Still, you’re starving, and there’s a sushi place around 15 minutes away from your new place.

Sydney has something to say first.

“So you’re just tryin’ to get rid of us.”

You roll your eyes and say, “Maybe so. Go ahead and dine in while you’re at it. Bring me something back when you’re done.”

The both of them start laughing at you as they make their way down to the elevator, and you’re smiling and waving in a way that’s so over the top you hear them get louder as they finally turn the corner. You maybe have 30 minutes, 45 tops, and truthfully you don’t _just_ have sex on the brain. N’Jadaka’s been filling your new place with the ugliest vibe all day and you just feel like burning some sage to clear it all out. It’s like he’s always having ‘family issues,’ but you can’t offer any help if he won’t slip you the whole story as to why.

All he ever does is give you unwarranted ranting about The Evils of the White Man or express all kinds of irritation at T’Challa’s expense until you change the subject or bring his attention around to your body. He’s so high strung during these moments it’s kind of funny, but you really wish he wouldn’t give you A Speech every time you did something innocuous.

Closing the door with a soft ‘click’ you immediately start searching for one of your random totes for a change of clothes. King whines the whole time you change into a big tee and cotton shorts, and by the time you’re about to reenter the living room you’re forced to sate him with four of those bacon flavored treats that definitely don’t taste like bacon.

Your curious ass found that out in high school.

N’Jadaka is still sitting in the same spot when you plop down next to him again, staring at the afternoon weather report with an intense expression. Sure, you like to know what’s going on outside too but anyone who watches The Weather Channel like this are people who aren’t all present. And sure enough his eyes seem to refocus when you nudge him. “Wassup.”

“Wassup with you?” you say back, unlocking your cell phone. “Your aura is poisoning my new place.”

He ignores you completely to ask, “They left?”

“They’re coming back in about half an hour. Bringing me sushi.”

This gets one of his classic snort and head shake combos, and to this you have to nudge him again with an attitude.

“What?”

He just looks at you. “Sushi.”

“What?!”

“Tell them to just go. By the time they bring the shit it’s gon’ have you throwin’ up anyway. It’s hot as fuck outside.”

You roll your eyes and keep scrolling through your IG feed. Maybe he’d be cool if he wasn’t wearing two layers of shirts, but you decide to keep it to yourself. You know he probably just wants them to stay gone so he can relieve his ‘stress’ with your body but this gives you an idea of what to do tonight.

For your request (that you’ve already made a dozen times) you block his view of the weekly forecast by climbing into his lap and folding your arms expectantly. To your surprise he pats the side of your head rough enough for you to move, smirking when you slap his flannel-covered arm in retaliation. You haven’t play-fought with a guy since high school and you’ve definitely never have with a man this damn brolic but when he tries to mush you out of the way again all bets are off.

“You’re so fuckin’ annoying,” you say laughing, being crushed under the weight of him as he holds you down.

“You always tryna start shit but don’t wanna finish it,” he replies, putting more weight on you. “Fuck you want?”

“For you to take me _out_ for once, nigga,” you go, trying to get comfortable underneath him like this. He’s got you by the wrists but he has the decency to finally bless you with the privilege of breathing as he gets off you.

You go back to straddling him, looking at him in a way that says you aren’t moving until he agrees to actually take you out in public. It’s not that hard, and it’d get rid of a lot of your anxieties about him actually wanting you past sex. Hell, even guys you hook up with tend to sweeten the deal up with a steak or lobster or _something._ So far, all you got was Chinese takeout and some styrofoam containers.

N’Jadaka’s just staring at you, seemingly amused, for a moment before grabbing you by the hips so roughly you jump like he hit you. He laughs at your reaction.

“You want candles,” he starts, still staring you down. “Tablecloths...reservations, that type shit.”

“Not necessarily,” you say, picking at your nails.

“What you want, then.”

Now that you’re being put on the spot you feel silly, and it takes you a second to figure out how to answer.

Finally, you say, “Yeah, maybe I do want all that. I want the waiter to be an old white guy in a suit.”

“His ass gotta have one of them bougie-soundin’ accents too, huh.”

“Yes,” you agree, smiling. “The menu gotta be thick with like, velvet on it. All the entries are stupid expensive and when you get it the shit is like...overwith in two bites. It won’t complete the experience until we’re forced to tip the snooty waiter who acted like he couldn’t be bothered because we weren’t old white people. That’s the shit I want.”

N’Jadaka slowly grins, and your eyes zero in on those fangs before flitting back up to his eyes to return it. His smile is so gorgeous, not to be corny, but hey. When something’s a true fact, it’s a true fact. Especially for people who you know don’t smile too often.

“Yo goofy ass watch too many movies.”

He just looks at you for the longest time, staring straight down into your soul while you turn to your phone to hide your bashful smile. You hate when he looks at you like he finds you amusing, like he did when he bandaged your knee at the barbecue. It’s when you immediately wanted to follow him straight down to wherever he’d take you. Looks are dangerous, and you’ve seen most of his repertoire so far. The bedroom eyes, the amusement eyes, the intimidation and the Killmonger. And that last one is something.

You’ve pressed play on your cellphone now, letting a 90s R&B playlist filter on out of the bluetooth speaker on the shelf below the tv. Growing up, your mom stayed playing her 70s slow jams whenever she cleaned the house and it always made you feel productive, but hopping forward a couple decades gets your new apartment feeling less oppressive. There are boxes everywhere else but in this one spot on the couch you can pretend your shit looks as nice as an Ikea catalog does.

When you try and get off him to keep lazing around he doesn’t stop you, and you’re so surprised when you’re sitting smushed into his side that you just look at him with your eyebrows raised. He glances at you before going back to staring at the tv, and it’s quiet between the two of you. Luckily he doesn’t seem as angry anymore, but he also doesn’t seem too quick to get you out of some clothes. At first, anyway.

 _Back and Forth_ by Aaliyah is on when you decide to show him some photo of really good looking seafood and you’re holding the phone up forever before you finally look over and see he’s staring dead at you. You’re stuck staring right back, going cross eyed as he moves so slow to kiss you like a lover again. You suppose the word is the best thing to describe what the two of you are currently doing, since he doesn’t like to call you a ‘girlfriend.’ In fact, you’re curious as to what he uses to refer to you when he’s with those guys from before, if he even talks about you at all.

Whatever, right?

His cologne is different today, and you don’t want to be weird and ask for his flannel shirt to wear just for the smell alone. It’s intoxicating, amplified by the fact that he’s been sweating is driving you out of your rabbit ass mind. You’re all but ripping clothes off him, much to his amusement, abandoning your pursuit halfway to press your lips back to his. It’s like he’s just letting you do whatever for a moment, only putting that strong grip on you when the two of you lock eyes again.

You curse under your breath at his fingers digging into your sides, biting his bottom lip in retaliation. Last night already had you with half moon shaped imprints in you from his vice grip and your body is still sore. N’Jadaka could at least have something hurt the next day, it’s only fair.

“Oh you got me fucked up,” he says, yanking your shorts down. He punctuates it by slapping you so hard on the ass you yelp. One of these days you’re going to return the favor and see how _he_ reacts.

“No,” you say, pushing him by the shoulders. “You got _me_ fucked up. That shit hurts.”

“ I ain’t even hit you that hard,” he says, rubbing the spot with his hand. “Weak ass. Can’t take this dick.. can’t take gettin’ this ass smacked..what can you take. Hm?”

“I can take my ass down the street and catch up with my friends,” you respond, smiling. “I’m starving.”

“I’m starvin’ too.”

And he bites his lip, taking several years off your life expectancy.

You don’t let him say anything else after that. He’s such a good kisser it drives you insane, and the thought of his tongue not currently being in your mouth is unacceptable. Damn is it nice to not have to take a wet wipe to the face after kissing someone for so long. Some people don’t know how to keep their tongues off of the other party’s _actual_ face.

It helps, too, to have a set of “soup coolers” like he does.

Your mouth doesn’t feel numb for another two songs, and you’re surprised he actually sat his ass here and kissed you for so long. What’s more surprising, though, is the fact that your parents take the opportunity to let themselves into your unlocked apartment bearing gifts.

They both have IKEA bags with shocked expressions on their faces that only grow more so by the second. You want to fall right into the center of the Earth because you’re half naked on a killer’s lap in front of your parents and God on a Saturday afternoon with _Can We Talk_ playing in the background.

“Hey, Ma,” you say, voice trembling. You can’t find your shorts anywhere so you end up awkwardly yanking your tshirt down far enough to cover you. “Dad. Hi.”

“Hey,” repeats your mother, hands now on her hips as she stares between the two of you and N’Jadaka. “We knocked but with this loud ass music playin’ I guess you couldn’t hear.”

By now your dad is zeroing in on N’Jadaka, but his ass isn’t even paying the two of them any attention. He’s just staring at you. In fact, everyone is staring at you and you’re about two seconds away from hopping off the damn balcony when the silence breaks.

“Who in the hell is this?”

Leave it to your oldhead ass father to be so rude as if he’s caught you with a boy at 13. You aren’t 13, and N’Jadaka definitely isn’t a ‘boy’, and judging by the way he’s leering at your dad this situation can go left real quick if the wrong thing is said.

Shook, you look back to the man on your couch with a gaping mouth. His whole demeanor has changed and that lets you know the pleasant, steamy, moment you just shared is dead and gone to be replaced by something rough or nothing at all.

“Go ‘head, baby girl,” N’Jadaka says, gesturing to your parents with a jerk of his head. “Tell em who I am.”

Your father stares at him like he stole something before shouting, “‘Baby girl?!’”

You really regret ever mentioning to this petty ass man that your father used to call you that as a kid.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a calm before the storm. shit's about to get crazy for you, dear reader, and not because of the 'being caught by the parents thing'


	13. if you...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which progress is made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter but I'm gonna start attempting to add some action afggf and it might be a long one/take longer and i wanted to have something in the meantime!
> 
> [if you love me - brownstone] is the literal inspo for this chapter and idk how this site handles links so go listen to it beforehand please!!! Or during, after, as long as you listen. It slaps.

Thoughts about N’Jadaka often find themselves passing through your mind; sometimes they’re positive, often they’re negative, but if there’s one thing for sure it’s that you currently want to fight him as he sits smirking devilishly at your parents.

You huff at him for being petty, snatching your shorts from him as he holds them up to you lazily. He makes sure to ‘accidentally’ trip you as you rush forward to greet your parents properly, and your mom is looking as amused as ever as you go to hug Dad first. He has this look on his face that he gets whenever somebody cheats while playing cards and you honestly want to laugh but this could really get serious. He carries.

“Mom, Dad,” you start, suppressing laughter at the way your mom is trying to do the same. “This is..Erik. Mom, you met him at-”

“I remember,” she says, cutting you off with a elbow nudge to your chest. The difference between your parents’ personalities was obvious the second they came in the door. Your mother, while initially shocked, decided to find the hilarity in the situation like she always does. She was always more open to the fact that you were growing up during your teenage years, and never shied away from being real with you when it came to boys. She got that you were going to do what you were going to do, just be safe while doing it.

Your dad, however...sheesh. ‘Overprotective’ isn’t enough to describe the man and he doted on and spoiled you as a child. The only kid, the only daughter. He always meant well, but damn did he get unbearable once you turned 13 and discovered the attractions of boys. He just had to personally supervise all of your birthday parties when you invited your guy friends, just had to try and scare you when you met and found first love in that kid Reggie from homeroom.  _That_ conversation about the dangers of STDs lasted an hour and a half until your mom intervened.

By now, N’Jadaka has sauntered over and your mom is making googly eyes at the both of you much to your amusement. What isn’t amusing, though, is how he rolls his shoulders and tilts his head as he stares down your father.

“Hey,” you hiss, hitting him in the stomach. “Don’t do that to him.”

He leans down to one of your ears. “Then tell that nigga to watch his mouth.”

Luckily, your mother saves it by asking N’Jadaka about what he does for a living (and wouldn’t you like to know), leaving you to focus on taking the bags from your father. You pull him aside with a nervous smile, but he keeps looking behind you at N’Jadaka.

“Erik, huh,” he scoffs. “Where you find his ass at?”

“ _Dad,”_ you go, tugging his shirt. “I ‘found’ him at the barbecue. Please be nice.”

He doesn’t pay you one bit of mind as he asks, “You ain’t never  _said_ nothin’ about him.”

It’s so damn hard not to crack up laughing but this fool of a father of yours sounds like he’s straight out of a 70s blaxploitation film sometimes and it’s starting to get hard to try and diffuse this situation. While it’s true that you haven’t mentioned ‘Erik’ once the past couple months, it’s less to do with you being ashamed and more to do with the fact that you didn’t even know what the two of you were doing. Hell, you still don’t.

“Aye, lil bit, lemme talk to you real quick.”

You turn around with a sigh, following N’Jadaka over to the patio doors as your mother cackles at something your father mumbles under his breath.

N’Jadaka just looks at you and you already know what that means. Getting on your knees and begging his ass not to go until he has you ‘limping’ like he said would be out of the damn question. You feel like screaming, but you can’t blame your parents for wanting to come see the new place. Their habit of not calling first is always appreciated by you.

“Stay,” you go, gripping his arms. You’re glad his flannel never completely left his body; those scars would be something else for your parents to squint at. “Don’t leave. Please.”

“There you go, beggin’ again.”

“Yes! Sit.”

And you go speed walking over to your bedroom, letting King out as a distraction for your parents to focus on. He serves as a decent conversation starter and the three of you manage to chat about the recent happenings in your family and the old neighborhood. There’s updates on Zeus, that he ate some shit he wasn’t supposed to and your mom had to pay 400 bucks at the vet for them to just say he’d be alright in a day or two. You’re happy to hear it, but not happy to hear about the money wasted. Predictably, she refuses your offer to pay her back. Zeus is basically  _your_ dog.

After scrutinizing your boxed-up place she says they’ll be back once you finish unpacking. Hopefully they call, but you know they wont.

“Oh,” says your mom, on her way out the door. “I’m cooking tomorrow so come over before your greedy ass cousins get over there. You’re welcome to bring a guest, if you want.”

And she says that last part with this dumb, teasing cadence in her voice that makes you playfully roll your eyes. There’s never a need for her to invite Kayla or Sydney because they’re basically honorary cousins. They’ve been around since you were in elementary.

You shoot the two of them a text telling them about it, punctuating it with a request for them to go on ahead with their business for the day. That they don’t have to come back and help.

N’Jadaka’s eyes are on you as you glance back at him, and you’re surprised he’s been good this whole time and kept his petty mouth shut. His nickname almost got your father into a fight he didn’t want or need, and the last thing you need is a reason to really cut up on N’Jadaka.

You say your goodbyes, hug them as well, and the second the black door clicks you breath out a sigh of relief.

King is bugging N’Jadaka when you return to the couch, and he lazily looks over at you as you sit.

“Yo moms is kind of bad,” he says, looking you up and down. “I hope you don’t end up lookin’ like Pops. For everybody sake.”

“Shut up!” you huff, putting your legs across his lap. “And my father isn’t ugly.”

“That nigga look like a shoe.”

For a split second you start snickering and you really hate that it makes you laugh because you love your dear old dad, even with his annoying parenting traits. Hiding your mouth with your hand you kick N’Jadaka’s side in response. He really has you fucked up with this, and the way he was acting toward your father was weird and Alpha like he was marking his territory.

After a few moments of silence you sigh, staring hard at the side of his head as you think about how these words are going to come out. If they even should.

Swallowing hard, you ask, “What about you, then? Since you have so much to say about  _my_ parents.”

“Whatchu mean.”

“Your parents,” you say, shrugging. “They around?”

“Nah,” he replies, jaw clenching for a bit as he stares at the tv.

“Well, w-”

He suddenly cuts you off, squeezing one of your calves hard. “Baby, don’t go there wit’ me. Not right now.”

You mumble an  _okay_ and leave it alone. The mood is definitely kind of awkward now and you wonder if your future sex life will have to be like last night’s drunken, sweaty mess. It’s like the only time you’ve been uninterrupted is under the influence and that’s not your favorite way to do it. You can hardly remember shit afterwards.

N’Jadaka starts idly rubbing his hands up and down the length of your calves, his eyes so vacant you wonder if he’s even there. He could be anywhere right now, at any point in his life, looking at something you cannot see but you’re content just like this when he starts to knead the muscles in your legs. You can’t help but groan in delight at the relief you’re feeling, leaning your head back on the armrest of the couch and letting this music playlist put you right on to sleep.

It’s been a long day.

* * *

 

 

“_____.”

You stir, unused to hearing your name from him. For once, he doesn’t seem annoyed, and if anything you keep your eyes closed just so he’ll do it again.

“_____,” he repeats, shaking your legs. “Get the hell off me, I gotta piss.”

Scoffing, you open your eyes and swing your legs off of N’Jadaka’s lap. You should probably know better than expecting him to not kill your vibe before it even starts. When you bitterly ask why he didn’t just move you off him by force he shouts that you’d only get an attitude ‘like always.’

“Mean ass.”

“Shut up,” you yell back, voice echoing in the living room. “At least I’m not disrespectful to my elders.”

You hear, briefly, the sound of him washing his hands before he’s crossing the floor toward you with a look that could kill. Rather than flinch you stand up to meet him, folding your arms and asking with your eyes who the hell he thinks he’s looking at like that. How could you have possibly flipped a switch with that sentence?

“What,” he starts, shrugging with his hands firmly held together. “I’m supposed to just roll over and act like a bitch when niggas come at me wrong?”

You shake your head in confusion before saying, “All he did was ask who you were; how was it  _that_ bad? And he’s not some ‘nigga’ off the street, he’s  _my father._ ”

He suddenly looks away from you, chuckling, like you’re so silly for even asking. He has all these weird triggers and emotional blocks that always seem to flare up when you least expect it to. He’s so capricious, and you’re sure that’s what makes him dangerous when he wants to be. But you stand there all the same, waiting for something to come out that helps you to understand a bit more why he acts the way he does.

When he looks at you again he’s radiating those vibes you don’t like, blowing air out harshly through his nose. It’s the only thing that betrays his rather calm expression. You involuntarily flinch as he grabs your face, despite him holding it rather gently as he stares you down.

“You ain’t see the way he was lookin’ at me, though,” he says. “The second he walked in the damn door he ain’t do shit but make assumptions. Like i’m just some hood nigga that ain’t ever gon’ be shit. ‘High school dropout,’ ‘work at Mcdonalds,’ ‘gang of kids no child support;’ like imma turn his bougie little Princess into some ratchet bitch with nothin’ goin’ on but a bunch of problems. ”

You try and deny this, opening your mouth to speak but he only cuts you off.

“He spoiled you,” he goes, letting your face go. “I bet he taught yo crybaby ass to look down on niggas from certain neighborhoods, huh. You grew up with all that shit, I ain’t even surprised. ”

“What ‘shit’ did I grow up with?” you ask, squinting at him.

 “That big ass house in one of them subdivisions that side of town? That might not be where all the modern, new shit is but that whole area with them old houses been full of people with money since the goddamn 30s. Just cuz you black don’t make it less uppity. Yo ass had two parents, dog, all them relatives, shit was paid for and you got no student debt? You was sittin’ up there comfortable. Even if you wanna act cheap off some phony ass need to seem ‘down’ with people now that you grown. You ain’t foolin’ no damn body, baby, I’m not stupid.”

You just look away from him, absolutely nothing to say as you uncomfortably rub your arm. Sure, you wanted him to tell you about himself, but you didn’t want it in this context nor did you want him to prove how perceptive he truly is by reading you like this. Maybe you did grow up without ever seeing your parents worry over bills or food. And maybe you realized it as you got older how much they provided for you and maybe you did often pretend like you didn’t have shit so as not to have people look at you funny. It worked sometimes, but boy did it backfire and now you’re just embarrassed that he’s called you out for being cheap with yourself when you don’t have to be.

Sighing, you say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know-”

“Exactly, you don’t know shit about me.”

And with one sentence he’s got you irritated because at least you’ve been actively trying to find out stuff about him. Incredulously, you shout, “Because you don’t tell me anything! You always get all aggro or you ignore my questions! How the fuck is that my fault?”

N’Jadaka suddenly turns away from you with an aggravated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as King desperately tries to get his attention on the floor. This isn’t how you wanted the evening to go, and you definitely don’t want him to leave like this but you can’t figure out any other way to end the interaction. He starts toward the door but you find yourself scurrying over to step in front of it with one hand on the hotel-like handle.

“Don’t leave,” you plead, not even caring how you look anymore. “Please.”

“_____, move.”

“Not until you say you’ll come back tonight,” you offer, meaning every word. The two of you just  _have_ to stop ending your interactions with either fights or orgasms. There’s no inbetween and you’re sick of it. It’s going to end up doing nothing but further feed into that voice in your head telling you to never speak to him again and that’s just something you don’t want.

You’re too far gone to want that at this point.

“I ain’t gon ask you again,” is all he says and you’re stepping aside into the kitchen to let him go. You can’t make people stay, no amount of begging is going to do anything and you just decide to shrug it off as King follows you back into the living room to examine your parents’ gifts. It’s the usual stuff for a housewarming; cutlery set, a couple succulent plants and a new set of pots and pans. The last gift is heaven sent, though, one of those air mattresses with the pump already included and that’s what you grab first.

Your bedroom is relatively empty save for more boxes and your desk and tv, and you hum at the fact you’re going to have to find your bottle of Febreeze to take the smell of chemicals out of it once you actually want to sleep.

Once it’s all said and done you decide to migrate into the bedroom, lazily tossing a couple blankets ontop after nearly killing yourself trying to get a full-size fitted sheet onto a Queen air mattress. There’s a notification on your phone.

_My bad - N_

_No you were right to feel some type of way about his attitude. - You_

_My mom likes you, though, so thank you for not going all Alpha on her - You_

_I would've shot you and not felt bad about it -_ You

Your stomach growls as you start up Netflix and you just sigh,leaning your head against the bed from where you sit on the floor. King has been knocked out next to you for the longest time, but he suddenly jumps awake and starts barking just as you relax. Despite the fact that he’s still a (rapidly growing) puppy, King already has the makings of one big ass pit bull. His paws are big and his bark seems like it’ll be louder than Zeus’. And  _Zeus_ can sound like a damn hellhound when he really wants to. All you have to do is give this command you taught him; a click of the tongue and a hand on his back simultaneously will turn him into Guard Dog mode real quick. It’s helpful to intimidate people.

King stops once you whistle at him, turning around in an impatient circle as he watches N’Jadaka come into your (un)locked apartment. You want to say you left it unlocked because you knew he’d be back, but that’s a damn lie. You just hoped he would.

He kicks off his Jordans impatiently and you zero in on the bags in his hand. A couple with styrofoam containers and a few others with the Target logo. There’s a liter bottle of coke in his other hand as he motions for you to come over with a flippant jerk of his head.

You go over to him slowly, surprised yet not wanting to make some smug quip about how you knew he couldn’t stay away. So instead, you take the easier route.

“Thanks,” you say, gesturing to the food. He snorts.

“This here is for me, not you.”

Smiling, you go, “Real shit?”

“Real shit, baby.”

It’s still kind of awkward when you look up at him blankly, unsure of what to say after his complete verbal destruction of your life earlier. He read you for absolute filth and you don’t appreciate that, even  _if_  you hit a nerve. And yes, he apologized in his own stunted way but..

Silence passes between the two of you, him going through bags and you staring at the hot wings and sides in the container sitting in front of you. There’s four damn containers, and the way the sauce is glistening under the kitchen lights has your stomach growling so loud it’s awful. You know he got enough for you, he’s just being his annoying self, but you ask again just to see what he’ll say.

“Its for me, right?”

“Nah,” he shoots. “It’s for the dog.”

Rolling your eyes you follow him into your bedroom, sitting on the stiff air mattress that you’re a little afraid will pop if he sits down too hard. Luckily for you, it’s  _just_ high enough that King can’t reach and he voices his anger by nipping at your foot with those razor sharp puppy teeth. He’s starting to get mean, which is weird because he was so chill when you first got him. He never nipped at you, never barked at you for giving him commands, never did anything but be cute and you have to blame the fool picking chicken bones clean next to you.

It’s like the equivalent of coming back to get your kid and you find out they’re cussing up a damn storm.

“Don’t give him any bones,” you suddenly bark, nudging N’Jadaka harshly with your elbow. He stops mid-toss to give you a look before putting them into an empty plastic bag between the two of you.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you be talkin’ to,” he mumbles, nudging you back.

“I’m talkin’ to  _you,_ nigga.”

“You talk too damn much.”

“ _You_ talk too damn much.”

And back and forth the two of you go, elbowing each other like children while King bitterly plays with his toys in the corner. He’s just going to have to get used to the fact that you aren’t one of those sharing owners that toss your food under the table.

N’Jadaka catches you on the boob and you yell like he stabbed you because he basically did. His strong ass elbow could easily pop one of them if he put enough force into it. He only calls you weak again and you would say something back but your mouth is full of food and you were raised with home training. Instead you just flip him off.

On tv,  _The Breakfast Club_ has started and you’re not even ten minutes into it before he’s asking for the remote.

You frown, looking over at him. “What for?”

“Whatchu mean ‘what for’? This movie ain’t got a single black person in it.”

“So?”

He raises his eyebrows at you. You know it doesn’t, but what’s the point in getting mad at 80s Brat Pack movies for their lack of minority main-casts? The shit’s been made already, and you happen to _like_ said 80s Brat Pack movies. It’s innocent, just like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, or Pretty in Pink. License to Drive and Stand By Me. All of those popular films of the decade rarely had black actors on front bill and yes it used to bug you, but you’d rather focus your energy on getting diverse casts in current and future films. It’s not like they can hear you back in 1989.

But N’Jadaka’s already gotten started; preaching to you in this self-aggrandizing way that sounds so Hotep you always tune him out. He always starts fine but gets dark way too quick and simple conversations about black America end up veering into that reactionary activist territory that scares you. There’s this darkness in him and you can see it in his eyes whenever the invisible switch gets flipped, and you wonder how many of those scars on his body are results of him being in that place of violence in his mind.

“Okay,” you sigh, grabbing the remote. “Okay, okay.”

“Don’t cut me off.”

“Well,” you scoff. “Don’t preach to me. I know our plight. But can I enjoy the occasional older film without any spoken word? Trust me, I know when to be upset, but watching a John Hughes film with a bunch of white teenagers in it isn’t Mickey Rooney in  _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ \- level shit.”

He’s about to say something smart at you but is interrupted by his cell phone buzzing. Great. In all the times he’s been with you and that phone has rang it’s almost always some ‘work’- related shit that has him bolting on you. You keep eating, one hand holding up a fry and the other scrolling through movies. N’Jadaka hasn’t started talking yet so you try to point out a movie on the screen in front of you.

“Have you seen this one?” you ask, pointing. “Hardball. It’s been a while but you know, there’s this one kid that kind of looks like you now that I think about-”

“What,” he goes, answering his phone and cutting you off. “I’m busy.”

Rolling your eyes you go back to scrolling through, a process that takes longer than actually watching anything, all the while trying to nosily eavesdrop on his conversation. He isn’t talking much but he keeps going ‘hm’ all amused like he wants to laugh at what’s being said.

“Im busy tomorrow, too,” he goes, catching you staring at him. “Nah, that ain’t happenin,’ shorty. Not any time soon.”

 Just like that you know who he’s talking to, you just do, and he gives you a teasing grin once the realization passes over your face. You’ve never really ‘been’ in a fight your whole life, so you just assume that you can’t. Usually Kayla was the brawler whenever some chick had a problem with any of you growing up. But with this ‘B,’ you can feel it in your bones you might have to fight her. You don’t know when, you don’t know how, but you just might. She’s too familiar, and N’Jadaka’s idjit ass finds this friction too funny to actually tell her to step off. You  _know_ she saw you on theshaderoom and you  _know_ she’s had to have found your instagram by now and seen King all over it.

He finally hangs up just as the bloodiest horror movie you could find starts up, and he’s laughing at you. His shoulders are shaking and everything.

“What the hell did she want?” you ask, ripping a wing apart.

“She tryna get me to come down to this club next week,” he says flippantly like he doesn’t care. “First it was tomorrow, then it was next Saturday for some nigga’s record label like I give a fuck.”

“Are all your friends going?”

He snorts. “Friends. Yeah, I guess. It’s a big industry party. I just don’t give a fuck about this industry nigga in particular. ”

“You’re going,” you say, peering up at him. “And you’re taking me with you.”

He only snickers at you before saying, “B from the hood, baby, you don’t want that fight.”

“You don’t know what I want,” is your indignant response, licking sauce off your fingers. “I’m not over that ‘little girl’ comment and I’m especially not over you letting her sit on your lap in front of me.”

Rolling his eyes he lets out an annoyed groan. “You still on that shit? You actin’ like I fucked her.”

“I don’t know  _what_ you did. And I don’t know what you did when I was mad at you and ignored you either.”

“Luckily for me I was workin’.”

You just turn and look at him, mid-chew. He’s looking at you back with this challenging look on his face. The problem with N’Jadaka is that he likes to tease you, and the even bigger problem is that his teasing always has you wondering if he’s joking or not. He told you B gave good head but he purposefully didn’t say ‘when,’ knowing good and damn well your skills are a little eh. It’s not  _your_ damn fault your gag reflex is sensitive as hell.

He keeps telling you that you’re being dramatic over nothing, that he can have friends if he feels like it, but you know he’s full of shit. Everyone can have ‘friends’, but most people’s ‘friends’ don’t send nudes and stay vaguing about them on instagram. You know. You’ve been looking at her stories.

Looking over at him sweetly you say, “No offense but I’m going to need you to practice what you preach. Then I’ll be done bugging you over her. Over anybody else.”

“Oh?” he goes, shrugging at you. “And what do I be preachin, lil bit?”

You hate his ass and his need for you to ‘spell shit out’ but you decide to play along all the same. You’re serious, and you’ve already told him this before; that he needs to stop acting like you’re a side piece that he loves up on in private and nowhere else. The two of you need to actually talk; you figure it’s the only way you’ll stop fighting so much. So you sigh and cross your legs, one over the other as you pretend to be invested in the B-Film playing in front of you. Some girl is being chased by a murderer and she falls, same old shit.

“Do you tell every girl you’re ever with that her pussy is yours?” you ask, squinting at the brightness of the screen. “I’m sure you do, until you get tired of them.”

“How you know I get tired of bitches?” He’s giving you that challenge-me look again.

“Because you just called them ‘bitches,’” you go, shaking your head. “Like, if you had some other girl in a year am I gonna be just lumped in with these anonymous ‘bitches’ if she asks the same question?”

N’Jadaka looks away from you, shaking his head, and normally you’d shut up but you really want him to be real for a second.

He only says, “Nah, it ain’t like that with you,” but he isn’t  _looking_ at you.

“What’s it like, then?” you ask, mouth full of food. You’ll be damned if you let it get cold. “Because truth is, N’Jadaka, I really don’t know anything about you. I don’t know how old you are, your favorite food, if you like art, literally none of the frivolous shit that I should by now. I didn’t even know your name until I accidentally overheard it. I feel like I can tell you so much shit about me, and I have all over the damn phone, but if I ask I’m afraid you’re gonna murder me.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious!” you shout incredulously. “You give me these kill looks and honestly that might just be your face but I don’t know. I just know, well I think, that you don’t wanna admit how much you like me being around. You expect me to just  _expect_ that you do but sometimes you gotta just say it. I don't know if  _you_ know how quick a man will switch up unprovoked but I know from experience.”

Honestly now that you’ve started you can’t stop, and it all comes pouring out of your mouth like word vomit but maybe it needs to. It definitely needs to if you want to save yourself a head (and heart) ache.

N’Jadaka rolls his eyes to the ceiling as you vent, but stays uncharacteristically silent the entire time. You don’t know if he’s really listening to you or if he’s thinking about stuffing your mouth full of these hot wings and leaving it at that, but you need to say what you need to say.

And when it ends you feel very anxious, butterflies in your stomach as you wait for him to say what he’s going to. It can go left, or it can go right, but all you can do is wait as blood sprays furiously on the tv in front of you.

You barely hear him mumble, “....So aggy,” under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

Sucking his teeth, he looks back at you in that same tone of voice he had earlier when he read you in the living room. “I don’t know why I even put up with yo ass. All this damn baggage. I swear, every chick I been with just took this dick and shut the hell up but nah, not _____. She gotta whine and complain and cry over every damn thing. What the fuck you want from me? Forreal.”

Simply, you say, “I want everything.”

He pauses, looking taken aback in probably the first time you’ve ever seen him do so. The two of you end up staring at each other, no one saying a word for what feels like forever until he breaks the silence by finally chuckling at you. It’s ironic that he said you have baggage when he might as well have the damn word tattooed on his face. He has so much baggage he almost uprooted an entire nation for it. Maybe you don't have the details, but you figure it was a 'personal' vendetta for that much effort to have been put into it.

“You want everything, huh,” he says, smirking. “Hm.”

“I want you to take me out, I want you to tell me about shit you’ve been through. I don’t need the heavy stuff, or anything you’re uncomfortable sharing but damn! What’d you do while you were at MIT? Do you like Detroit-style pizza or New York? Which Bobby Brown song slaps the hardest? Can I get a trip to the mall with you to see where you get all these bougie ass flannels that probably cost more than a cell phone? How do you take your coffee? Personally, I like a lot of cream and sugar.”

“That’s why yo ass is rotten.”

“No, that’s why I’m sweet,” you quip, fluttering your eyelashes at him. “And if my shit is yours, your shit is mine and I’m not talkin’ about what’s in that bank account.”

“Aight, bet.”

You just throw a french fry at him for using that word again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed from a few comments from last chapter that people were upset with n'jadaka's petty response to "your" father and I meant for it to be funny asgdhg. Especially because he rudely asked who he was.


	14. take me out sometime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's like a monkey's paw type-thing. (a short one this time too, i'm sorry!!)

When your mother said she was 'cooking,' she conveniently failed to disclose that it meant she was having a small 'gathering' with several of your aunts and a couple uncles. There are kids darting around playing with Zeus and oldies rocking the foundation of the entire house from the basement entertainment system. Usually when she told you this it meant she had too much food, come get some, and maybe you'd see a couple relatives drive through while you sat there for a couple hours.

Keyword: couple.

You pull into the driveway, suddenly feeling like your chest is constricting. Those aunts and those uncles of yours sure know how to kill your spirit and that's when you're by yourself. But now you aren't by yourself. It's you, Sydney, Kayla and N'Jadaka, all stuffed into your Cruze. Your friends were already coming, that's a given, but N'Jadaka only agreed to get dragged along for the food and with the promise you wouldn't be there longer than an hour and a half.

You like his damn nerve, but you didn't plan on staying long anyway; the Museum downtown is having a special exhibit on Monet and you're dying to see those iconic paintings in person before they move cities.

The tickets are in your purse, and he  _is_ taking you.

Meanwhile, he's staring you dead in the side of your head and you nervously glance over at him, smushed in your passenger's seat. Your friends are snickering behind you and your stomach is growling and you feel like a bus driver of rowdy, bad-ass kids.

"Okay look," you start, pointing at all of them. "I want this to be quick. Pretend to be on y'alls phones and don't make direct eye contact with my auntie J  _or_ uncle David and this will be an incident-free scenario."

Finally, you look to your rowdy puppy sitting on Kayla's lap. He nips at your finger and you give him that same look you used to give Zeus whenever he misbehaved. And just like with Zeus, he returns the expression with a lick.

"That's right," you say, giving another pointed glare to your passengers. N'Jadaka only starts laughing at you in that way that means he's definitely making fun of you in his head. But that's alright; you have a plan and you're sticking to it.

The front door is open so you peek inside, one hand on the handle and the other on N'Jadaka's arm. Calling out a, "Hey," you just stand there and wait.

Sure enough you hear that barking and those claws on the kitchen floor as Zeus shoots in from the backyard and toward the front hall. It's like he can always sense when you're here, but he still thinks he's a damn puppy and nearly takes you clean to God when he finally reaches you. You stumble into N'Jadaka, who steadies you with two hands on your hips. Somewhere behind you King is yapping and trying to get to Zeus, tangling his leash between everybody's legs as he struggles and isn't this just a perfect metaphor for your life right now?

"Zeus," you say, struggling. "Sit!"

And he does, tail wagging hard as he looks up at you. Truthfully, this meeting has been giving you anxiety. Just because a dog is nice and sweet to you doesn't mean he'll react that way to another dog. Zeus getting aggressive with King and hurting him might actually kill you and you watch with your heart in your chest as the two finally start sniffing each other.

Every time Zeus moves, King gets spooked and barks, which only makes Zeus get more busy. If they don't get back outside this whole house is going to be a mess so you lead everyone through to the kitchen, where your mother is smoking a cigarette at the table. It's so loud you can't even stand it but you greet her all the same. She flicks ash in the tray before returning your hug and giving your 'Guest' a welcome smile. You look back to see if N'Jadaka has the courtesy to return it, but he's smirking, and you suppose it's good enough.

That comment he made about your mom being 'bad' echoes in your mind and you bump his shoulder as you pass by to peek outside.

There aren't many people over, a few of your younger cousins running around with your dogs while some older ones sit on the wood patio and eat from paper plates. The grill is still smoking as your dad flips some of those red-hot sausages you love into the aluminum pan on the side. This is such a familiar scene, down to the smell of your mother's menthol cigs and the charcoal burning in the grill that you momentarily forget who's standing behind you like a brick wall.

Sighing, you say, "Hey," through the screen.

The greetings come in waves; first your dad turns to smile at you before grimacing at N'Jadaka's presence, then your auntie J and uncle David shout their mirthful hellos and immediate questions about where you've been.

Sydney and Kayla squeeze past you to go accost the food fresh off the grill and you're forced to step outside, one hand gripping N'Jadaka's jacket. He's decided to bless you with those glasses again, and part of his dreads are pulled back and sticking straight up in the middle of his head and to be honest you really feel the look. He looks hot, though, literally. It's a low 70s out but the jacket he's rocking is like it's a low 50s.

From your observations, he clearly doesn't get hot very easily.

You greet everyone with a happy smile, answering their rapid fire questions with vague answers and a short introduction to the man staring you dead in the back of your head. You can feel it, and it's like he took your plea hours earlier literally.  _Please stop staring at my family members like they owe you money,_ apparently translates to his eyes never leaving your person. That, or his phone, and when you tell everyone his name he nods distractedly as he scrolls up on the screen.

"I can't stay," you say to your dad, biting your lip. "I only came to say hi-"

"- And to make a plate," he finishes, raising an eyebrow at you.

"You know me so well," is your sarcastic reply, pretending to push him aside as you reach straight for a vegetable skewer. There are five, and you've immediately laid claim to each one for this plate you're making.

It's when you're back in the kitchen, alone, making plates that you get cornered by a couple of your older cousins. They come at you from both sides like lions trying to take down a gazelle. It's a tactic you're all too used to growing up with their annoying asses. They're only a year or so older than you, so you still basically were the same generation, and the difference between you and the two accosting you is that you don't have any kids.

Chloe speaks first, leaning against the kitchen island and kicking you in the butt with one foot. 

"Where you find his fine ass at?" 

You snort, reaching for the foil behind her but she blocks you with one hand. She's a single mother, it just being her and M, and you think back to the favor you did her precious kid back at the barbecue. She never paid you for taking down M's brain-twisting braids in pie like she was supposed to. When you bring this up she starts laughing.

"I got you on the pie," she says, swatting your hands away. "He got a brother or somethin'? M needs a stepdaddy."

"Shut up," you go, chuckling. "He makes my dad uncomfortable, so I'm not staying long."

At this, your other cousin quips about you making sure to use protection, just as N'Jadaka slides the patio door open with two fingers. His cell phone is up to his ear as he crosses the kitchen floor and all he gives you is a glance that says he's entertained your relatives long enough. It's fair, you have plans after all, and you start bagging stuff up like you're on the clock.

Outside, your mother is too busy playing cards to react much when you reach down to hug her, almost immediately calling your Uncle's last move 'some bitch shit,' and when you look to your dad he's shaking his head at you. Sydney and Kayla don't live too far from the old neighborhood, so they tell you to go on ahead and they'll get a ride home later, but the hardest farewell is yet to come. 

Zeus keeps trying to play with you, running in circles around your legs and nipping at the hoodie tied around your waist and you want to cry. He's gotten so good at getting what he wants over the years and joke's on him because you've gotten just as good at countering it.  But he cries and cries and cries when you pick King up, and that crying turns to barking once he sees that the both of you are leaving, and luckily your mother sets her cards down to address it.

"Leave him here and come back," she says, gesturing to King in your arms. "Get ya emotional ass on some damn where."

At this you have to laugh, because you were actually about to get all teary, and Zeus pays you no mind once you unhook King's leash and let him back down. Zeus gets distracted by King zipping around the backyard, giving you time to backpedal to the patio door with your goodbyes.

Or rather, you say you'll be back in a few hours to pick up your rowdy 'child,' before making your way through the house. You get a little nostalgic passing by the living room, smiling to yourself at the memories of you sitting entirely too close after school to catch the cartoons while your mother made dinner. And when you got a little older, it was reality tv shows and music videos.

Locking the front door behind you, you nearly kick N'Jadaka square in the back as you turn around because he's sitting on the top step on his phone. Surprisingly, he's speaking English to whomever is on the other line, and he sounds really irritated. It's a level above his usual irritation, and he barely reacts when you take a seat next to him, adjusting uncomfortably to the hard cement.

You start eating the vegetable skewers, idly watching the wind rustle through that massive tree across the street that the city won't let the neighbors cut down. They've been trying to get rid of it since you were in eighth grade and you're glad they can't; it's so lush and gorgeous like it's been there since the beginning. 

The empty housing plots where the barbecue is every year looks especially empty now that it's not bumping to the beat of some early 2000s throwback or filled with camping chairs and the smell of smoked meat. There's no dingy bouncing houses for the kids or no friend of your Uncles' that always tries to open the hydrant. You already miss it, because when it's over, summer isn't far behind. 

"-Yeah, i'm on my way."

You whip your head around to stare him dead in his face and he only gives you a flippant look that basically asks what the hell is wrong with you. He gets to his feet quickly, already at your car before you know it and you're scrambling to close one of your food containers to follow after him. 

He's gotten in the driver's seat without asking you if you want him to fuck up your transmission by driving like it's an expensive sports car, turning the key with a rumble that doesn't sound as impressive compared to his.

"Where are you on your way to?" You ask, frowning as he backs out of the driveway. 

"Why you so damn nosy?"

You huff. "You were supposed to take me to the Art Museum to see the Monet exhibit."

He frowns himself, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at you as he says, "I was supposed to. Since when?"

"Since I spent money on tickets and told you I wanted you to take me out."

"Nah, you ain't say shit to me about it," he goes, shaking his head. "You can't just be assuming i'mma do shit just because you want me to."

Now isn't the time for him to expose your unwillingness to beg him for anything, especially since you definitely mentioned this exhibit and you definitely said you wanted to go and it's no one's fault but his own that he didn't put 2 and 2 together. Hell, how could he assume otherwise when you drove?

You ride in silence, staring straight ahead at the terrible traffic with the ugliest pout on your face. N'Jadaka doesn't say anything, but you can see in the corner of your eye that he keeps looking at you.  Pretending that the Rolls Royce that drives past is actually interesting is better than giving in and turning around, though, and this continues until you hit a red light and the car pulls into a Starbucks.

Now that your focus is broken you see that you're nearing the museum; you can see the large glass side of the building from where your car sits in the intersection.

"Okay," you say, finally looking over at him. "I'm still going, so drop me off, I guess."

Maybe you can give the ticket to someone else in the museum; it's a popular exhibit and it's completely sold out. Last night you definitely made it super clear when you had your laptop out that you wanted him to take you. Maybe he missed it because he was too busy using your ass as a pillow and staring at some true crime drama on tv that freaked you out to the point you didn't sleep until 4 AM.  But honestly you think he just doesn't want to see an exhibit by a white artist.

Despite his silence, N'Jadaka definitely pulls into the parking lot of the art museum, braking so hard the car jerks violently and you grimace as the seat belt presses against your neck harshly. He definitely isn't used to driving cars without super powerful engines and it shows; he's acting like the shit is a stick shift.

"Can you promise to be back here in a couple hours?" You ask, raising an eyebrow at him. "Seeing as you're 'on your way' somewhere. I don't want you to miss it, so treat my car like it's yours."

After the words pass out of your mouth you have to backpedal with, "-Actually, don't. Just act like it's a rental."

He rolls his eyes at, staring at the full parking lot in front of the both of you. Sometimes you really wish he'd not be so 'internal' with himself. It's very obvious most times where he's silently arguing with himself, or having some sort of deep conversation that only he can actually hear. 

"Okay?" you go, shaking his shoulder. When he doesn't answer you just go to open the passenger's side door with a huff but the doors lock the second you try.

He's looking you straight in the eye when you turn to give him a look that definitely means he's trying every nerve in your body. A warning. 

"What, so I can't go?" you ask, joking.

But to your surprise, he shakes his head. "No."

"What d'you mean, 'no'?!"

"I mean what I said," he goes, shrugging like he's making perfect sense. "You not goin'."

"Why not?"

Someone is honking behind you but N'Jadaka pays them no mind. "Because I fuckin' said so.  You think i'm lettin' you go alone when you can't even do shit but get kidnapped if some nigga came up behind you? Nah."

You squint at him, folding your arms, because what a roundabout way to say 'be careful.' When you jokingly inquired if he had some sort of fetish for taking care of you, you didn't think it extended to being paranoid you'd get snatched up in an art museum. All he ever does is mock your lack of actual self-defense, your inability to do anything with that gun he gave you, and how frequently you forget to lock doors when your mind is on something else. He of all people should know how hard it is to focus when your brain gets especially noisy, and the least he could do is express concern without being patronizing as all hell.

Every damn time he warns you against something it has you wondering if he's been on the other end of the same shit.

You decide to ask, just as that honking car angrily speeds past you to go find a parking spot. 

"What the hell did you do last time you were in a museum? Just curious. Did you snatch up some defenseless girl or at least think about it for you to be giving me all these vague warnings?"

He only snorts, smirking like he's remembering something funny, before putting his eyes back on you. "Not exactly."

"But-"

"Listen, baby," he goes, with that patronizing tone again. "At this point, it's obvious-"

"You're renting," you interrupt, knowing he was about to say something about you being 'his'. "But go on."

"If some wannabe-ass nigga with some shit to prove got a problem with me, yo pretty ass is a easy target."

You groan, hating that you've had these exact thoughts before. It's half the reason you were so petrified to stay at his house alone so late at night; all you could think of was someone coming in for revenge off something he's done to them or someone they know. And that's why you're so afraid of the secrets he keeps. He's probably not doing anything terribly illegal now that he's gotten a pardon; an MIT grad at the top of his class can't be  _that_ stupid. 

But you're a woman, a black woman at that, so living day-to-day is a dangerous game of russian roulette regardless of who you're dating. Hell, sometimes you don't even want to go outside on the off chance you'd get sliced up by some piece of shit man because you don't want to give him your number. It's bullshit, but you have to live your life.

And that includes the little pleasures, like going to see paintings by some old dude a lifetime ago. 

Resorting to begging, you lean over to put your chin on his shoulder, closing your eyes and just whining. It's probably the most annoying sound that's ever come out of your mouth, and you learned it from Kayla. She used to use it to get her way with her boyfriend, in the most innocent of contexts of course. A bite of his food here, a drink of his Arizona there..

He used to find it adorably irritating when she did it, but N'Jadaka may be another story. 

He tells you, in his own eloquent way, to shut up by elbowing you but you ignore it to wrap your arms around his neck. Now you're just being an asshole on purpose,  trying to make him relent. In actuality, he can't  _make_ you do shit and you fully plan on getting out and going but in the meantime you just want to get on his nerves in the same way he finds new methods to get on every one in your body.

The car suddenly jerks forward and at first you think it's an accident but when N'Jadaka suddenly slams his foot on the gas you know in your mind he's gone crazy. Luckily no one is in the parking lot to get ran over as your poor car goes drifting around it and by the third lap of you holding on for dear life, the car brakes hard again, and your back hits the steering wheel. 

The sound of the horn spooks a few birds.

N'Jadaka is just watching you laugh, light-headed and heart pounding  from the adrenaline of suddenly flying around the parking lot with no seat belt.  You feel like he just took several years off your car's lifespan but you just cannot stop laughing and it's making him get this smirk on his face at the fact that yes, he did manage to get you off him and shut up.

Finally catching your breath, you go, "I thought you had somewhere to be why can't you just let me go, fool!"

He doesn't say anything, but the smirk turns to a smile as he turns to stare out of the windshield. Slowly, the smile disappears but you can see in his eyes that he's still amused at you as he whips your abused car into a spot. You're out of the car before he even turns the ignition off, scrambling to the driver's side to attack him in an excited hug that he calls you a name again for. 

"Spoiled ass."

You're not going to kid yourself about this outing; you were going to see it no matter what but it did hurt your feelings at the fact that it'd have to be alone. 

But you have to ask as he pockets your keys, wondering if this business he has to take care of was important. You'd hate to know that he kept T'Challa or someone else waiting just to make sure no goon yanked you up in a museum. 

 

* * *

 

 

When you exit the Monet exhibit, content and thinking of spring, you're wishing you gave your other ticket to someone else. To call N'Jadaka 'unimpressed' is an understatement, and a part of you is wondering if he just holds most of this stuff in spiteful disdain solely on the basis that it isn't black-made. 

He's such a hotep.

You take a nearby map off of the plastic holder on the wall and open it, eyes scanning over the exhibits that are separated into specific cultures or periods of Art History. The floor you're currently on houses the European Renaissance, but the second you try and go down the hall you're being turned around by the shoulders and led to the stairs. 

"You know," you say, putting the map in your purse. "Maybe I should've come alone. For an uninterrupted,  _objective_ experience." 

If anything, you'd think his ass wouldn't want to see all the 'stolen' African relics in the floor above you but he's pushing you there all the same. 

You think the museum halls smell familiar, like a mixture of pencil shavings from the people scattered around drawing,  and floor polish. It's an odd combination that gets you thinking of elementary school, before the halls smelled of lunch meat and cafeteria mashed potatoes.

The two of you take the stairs, sunlight beaming down through the floor to ceiling glass windows and you honestly wouldn't mind drifting around here for hours just to bask in the atmosphere. Like academia, but without the stress.

There's an absolutely terrifying pair of masks  that greet you, hanging on the wall adjacent to the stairs and one of them reminds you of the one you saw on display in N'Jadaka's living room. It's sitting on a white stand behind a glass pedestal, and  you've only ever given it a passing glance going in and out of his place.

He spends entirely too long reading the inscriptions so you wander off to go check out the other pieces. There are textiles hung up behind glass with beautiful woven fabrics and pottery just sitting out in the open that make you nervous to walk past too quickly less they 'just happen' to fall over and ruin your life. 

It's quiet, the few people milling around speaking in hushed voices as the observe, and you get lost in the faint sound of drums coming from the video screen to the right of you. The song carries through the other rooms, and you're so focused on reading every plaque that interests you that you completely fail to realize that you're alone until the drumming has stopped.

Only your ears are ringing now, and it's eerie, but you don't remember which way you came. Out of the corner of your eyes you see someone silently walking past, only you don't see them round the corner to the left of you like they should. Now you're too afraid to turn around, but you don't have to, because the strong grip on your upper arm lets you know not to. Next you feel something hard on the small of your back and all you can really do is sigh and ask God what you really did to offend him today.

It's the only rationalization you have as to why he decided to let some gun-toting freak accost you in the African Art exhibit while your hotep ass lover is too busy reading wall inscriptions to notice.

You'd scream but he threatens you. Besides, it'd only echo off of the walls and carry in a way that would make it impossible to pinpoint the location. 

That and you'd probably get shot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: How to be Kidnapped and Annoyed That Your Hotep Boyfriend was Right In Assuming You Would Be


	15. the desperate man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i figured shorter chapters more often is better than super long ones once in a while

It occurs to you, as you slowly open your eyes in an unfamiliar location, that maybe this isn't a set up. That rather than N'Jadaka trying to be funny and prove a point, you really got kidnapped by the winds of fate stirring up an ironic coincidence. Maybe, the gods saw fit to tell you you aren't allowed to actually go on a 'date' like a normal person. Maybe you need to let guys short change you and give you a box of Popeye's and a Red Box and call it a night.

Never.

You blink against the harsh lighting hanging from the ceiling above you, wondering when you passed out and why. Your head doesn't hurt, but you can't check for any lumps due to your hands being bound behind your back with zip ties. But you do notice the pocket knife sticking out of your left thigh and it takes a second for your brain to realize what's happening.

As you stare in complete disbelief at the dried blood staining your jeans it all starts to come back to you; the last couple hours or so feeling like a fever dream.

That Man, reeking of liquor, had dragged you unceremoniously into the back corner of the floor and out the employee exit. He and whomever he was with managed to disable the alarm on that specific door and seemed to just be waiting for someone to pass by. It reminds you of Venus Flytraps and the way they catch bugs. You were compliant the entire time, fearing being shot too much to try and do something stupid like run, but something must have made you be even more stupid and try and stab him with your pocketknife.

Your mind seems blurry, but it must be why you currently have your meager weapon sticking out of your leg and why you'd passed out in the first place. 

There's a noise from in front of you and you flinch, finally taking in your surroundings once the initial shock has worn off. The room you're in is small and relatively featureless, no furniture no television, nothing but you and a couple stained boxes in the furthest corner.

It smells like mildew and moth balls, and you scrunch your nose up. A terrible thought, but it reminds you of one of your aunts' basements. Dank and moist and unpleasant. 

Your next thought is just as terrible: what if you die tonight? What if, you never make it out of this shithole room all because you wanted to go see an art exhibit. It starts to sadden you to think of what your parents would think and feel, but a voice in the back of your mind is outright screaming at you to shut up and start finding a way out of this. 

There isn't any way for you to get your hands out of the tight zip ties, so despite the initial glee you felt for having your knife it's basically useless. Sydney's the weirdo who can completely bend her arms around and over the top of her head, but not you. They'd just pop out of the sockets and leave you even more fucked up. 

You sigh in frustration, trying to at least shimmy the knife out of your leg to maybe relieve some of the dull ache you feel. However, you only succeed in irritating the wound, sending a shockwave of pain throughout your leg that you feel all the way up to your damn neck and you grit your teeth so hard you're afraid they'll break.

At least you have health insurance for another couple weeks.

Feeling your back pockets you find that your cell phone is gone, as is your wristlet with everything that says who you are. Everything that will prove to the coroner's your identity so they don't call you 'Jane Doe.' 

"Damn," you  finally say, having exhausted all of your options. "I can't believe his ass was right."

The door suddenly opens, slamming hard against the wall and bouncing off it with a harsh  _bang_. You flinch before quickly getting yourself together to stare hard at the obviously drunk piece of shit that managed to slip you right underneath N'Jadaka's nose. That is, unless it was a setup. The idea is still floating along in your brain.

"Is this a setup?" you ask,  leaning against the wall. "Was this some fake ass kidnapping to teach me a lesson because if it was -"

The Man cuts you off with some unintelligible curse word that doesn't sound like it's English, gesturing rudely at you in a way that obviously means  'shut up.' You do,  pulling your legs up to yourself as he gets closer to you because there's always that other fear you have when it comes to being alone with strange men. It's hard not to be afraid, in fact you're scared shitless but you try and hide it behind a blank stare that probably isn't that blank anymore.

Living in a world with so many 'special' people, superheroes and mutants and the like is something you've always thought amazing but like with everything, there's a flip side. With great heroes, there always comes the people who want to challenge it. People with 'shit to prove,' and it's completely backwards how petty crimes seemed to spike the more Heroes came into the light. It's so stupid, and you're so tired of fearing every person that looks at you on the street. 

How come  _you_ couldn't have been born with some wonderful magical ability?

The Man is only staring at you, his eyes trailing up and down your body and you frown at whatever sick ass thought is going through his mind. He's wearing a dirty white tank top, stained with sweat and maybe alcohol, and baggy camo pants with a pair of boots that bring to mind some random soldier off a terrible 80s action film. He's bald, and there are scars on his head that look like knife wounds. The longer you stare at him the more you try and really understand why this fool kidnapped you. 

You, are a nobody in the grandest context of the universe. There's no reason for someone to flat out kidnap you and keep you alive this long. If this was a random act of violence, you'd either be dead or horribly assaulted in ways you don't want to think about, so there's obviously  a reason. That reason, coming to mind like an annoying reminder, is N'Jadaka. There really isn't a 'secret' to who he is; other than his real name and perhaps his true heritage in certain circles, and it also isn't a secret how much money he's sitting on. Maybe it's a result of him being the cousin of a king, but there's a surplus.

And with a surplus comes those who would wish to get some of it, and it's painfully obvious this creep saw you and N'Jadaka together, made a connection, and decided to try and get some ransom money and it's such a basic reasoning that it makes you angry.

With a huff you say, "You just want money, right. How much?"

He folds his arms and actually responds with, "3 mil." 

One side of you thinks that's outrageous, and the other side is a little annoyed that he thinks that's all you're worth. You'd at least wager 3.5. 

"Do you think he'll give it to you?" you ask, genuinely curious. 

He gives you a look that screams 'of course' but you know that he knows that it's a bit of a reach. T'Challa may do it, in fact, you think there's a high chance he'd pay the ransom to ensure your safety but this isn't who this freak slighted. For him to honestly think that a man they nicknamed  _Killmonger_ solely for the body count he's racked up and the efficiency with which he's done so, will honest-to-God bother with not only paying a ransom but letting the person receiving it walk away and enjoy it is ridiculous. It's so ridiculous you kind of laugh in disbelief.

This pisses him off and he comes stomping over to you, using his heavy boot-clad feet to kick the knife in your leg. You watch blood spread on your jeans, trying your hardest not to just start crying, and you think it's bad that you're afraid of embarrassing yourself in front of a man that will probably be very dead soon.

"So, what," you say through gritted teeth. "How is he gonna pay you if he doesn't know where you are?"

"He does know where I am."

For a second you just stare at him, absolutely dumbfounded at the lack of foresight in this plan. What happens when N'Jadaka gets here? How is this exchange going to take place? What's stopping him from viciously murdering this guy the second you're on the other side? He's underestimating the cruelty of a killer, you think. While you haven't seen N'Jadaka in action, it's safe to say that with so many bodies under his belt he's stopped giving a fuck a long time ago. He's killed people for much less.

And that scares you. 

But all you can do is wait. Wait to live, wait to die, wait for some sort of absolution in this dirty room in a location you don't know. Technically, you could be anywhere, having passed out shortly after getting shoved into a dirty pickup truck. There's a possibility you could be outside California and that weirdly freaks you out more than anything else. You just want to be rescued already, happy that this is a basic ransom scam and not something you always fear in the back of your mind: sex trafficking. 

It feels like more hours pass and you've moved to laying on your side, anything to relieve the soreness in your butt from sitting on hard floor for so long. The knife wound in your leg burns something awful and it has you rocking in a vain attempt to relieve it. You've been called every variation of 'bitch' under the sun, had your hair pulled and you're sure that maybe this guy doesn't like to be laughed at because he fully dotted your eye for snickering at his piss-poor attempts at cussing you out.

It's fine, he hurt you a lot with his false attempts at bravado, but it's fine.

It's fine because his wannabe supervillain ass decided to try the  _actual_  wrong supervillain, and you know it because his voice falters as he commands you to get up. There's fresh commotion outside the room, gunshots and yelling and things crashing to the floor and you're afraid again as you're dragged forward by the hair. 

Your kidnapper starts shouting something through the door, his grip on your hair vicious and it's beginning to give you a headache as he waits for a response. He's trembling a little, all that macho bullshit from before faltering now that he's being confronted by the very man he's trying to scam, and you kind of relate. Despite safety being near your heart hammers hard in your chest, rising and falling so quickly with each breath that you're afraid you'll have a panic attack. 

There's nothing worse than stupid criminals, and stupid criminals are unpredictable. The moment the silence starts and the door opens, it's probably the most in danger you've felt since this thing started. 

You can't see what's happening, your head trained straight at the ground as your head is wrenched forward in a terrible attempt to drag you into the next room. With tied arms you can't really steady yourself, and with one wounded leg you can't succeed in doing much else other than flopping to the ground like a dead fish. 

The ground is covered in glass shards and bullet shells, and it's too quiet for how noisy it was only moments before. It's eerie, and all you can hear is breathing.

"So you got the shit?" asks your kidnapper, putting bass in his voice that wasn't there a few minutes ago. You chance looking up through the curtain of twists in your face and something in the way that N'Jadaka is just standing there has the hair on your arms standing straight up. You look to your kidnapper, see the gun in his hand , before going back to the gun in N'Jadaka's hand. 

You don't know guns very well, so you don't know who has a better model, but you suppose that doesn't matter. All that really matters is how quick you are on the draw.

And your kidnapper is not.

Before you even realize what's happening, there's a spray of blood that feels warm on your face. It's in your hair and your eye and your mouth, and you don't even get to be horrified because you're too busy wondering how N'Jadaka managed to miss a killshot like this.

Your kidnapper is still very much alive, screaming, but alive. He's dropped his gun to tend to the fact that there's a very sizeable hole in the hand that was touching you. He tries to go for it, though, but you don't know why he even bothers but do anything other than face death with dignity because there's no way in hell he leaves this place. 

There's another deafening bang, and his left knee is out of commission. His right, is next. Then his left arm before N'Jadaka pauses to nonchalantly reload and all you can do is stare at him, frozen. There's blood on him in a few spots, nothing too suspicious looking, but that's more than you can say for the state of the men around you in the larger room. While your kidnapper's plan was shit, you have to give it to him for having 'guards,' even though you feel like the guards were just his friends looking to get in on this supposed 3 million dollars.

You want so badly to cover your ears, unable to really stomach the pitiful sounds coming out of your kidnapper's mouth as he decides to start alternating between begging for his life and screaming in abject horror. You don't want to hear N'Jadaka either, the way he's just  _shouting_ at your kidnapper, calling him all sorts of 'bitch niggas' and asking if he 'lost his goddamn mind.' 

Normally you'd take N'Jadaka for the type to just do it and not speak a word, but you suppose this is a special case because he looks so absolutely furious and it's scaring the hell out of you. 

The guy goes still before N'Jadaka can do anything more, and that must be the ultimate disrespect because he just goes right ahead and empties the entire clip into his face. With every bang your ears ring harder but you absolutely cannot seem to do more than back into the wall and put your head down in a desperate attempt to pretend this shit isn't happening. It was supposed to be clean, just like the movies. The guy was supposed to be knocked all the way out and you were supposed to be ushered to safety and whatever happened with you gone, just happened. You didn't have to witness the object of your affections completely turn a man's face into a pile of bloody meat.

You start to cry and that must snap him out of it, because he suddenly shoves the gun into his pants and comes over to where you're cowering on the floor. He takes the knife out of your leg swiftly before pressing down on the wound with a cloth, using the other hand to cut the zip ties. 

"Hold it," he commands, moving your hand to continue pressing down and you can't help but feel uneasy because that look is still in his eyes. You don't like it, and you don't move until he looks at you. 

Slowly, it does go away, like he flipped a mental switch and only then do you allow him to pull you to your feet. He asks if you're good but you don't say anything, trying not to look at the carnage around you as you hobble toward an open door and down a flight of stairs.

 It's dark outside now, and you recognize a few of N'Jadaka's nameless boys lingering around the black truck rumbling in the gravel driveway of this boarded up co-op building. You don't even acknowledge the nod one of them gives you as you slide into the back seat, nor do you say anything when there's suddenly the flashlight of a cell phone pointing in your face. You're sure you look like death, and you feel like it too to the point you just want to go to sleep. 

N'Jadaka takes the cloth you were holding to your leg and drenches it with the leftover water from the bottle in the cup holder. His hand on your face is surprisingly gentle despite the fact he's literally scrubbing someone else's blood off it.  None of this bothers him in the slightest, and you think that's super fucked up, but nothing was as bad as witnessing him all blood drunk and crazy. He probably would've kept it up if your kidnapper hadn't checked out that quickly. 

You think of that faceless man as you pass by a neon sign, and you feel like throwing up.

 

* * *

 

 

No one can see how awful you look under the dim lights in the bar, and for that you're thankful. The sign read 'Night Bar' and you'd wordlessly made them stop and let you out because damn food; you need several drinks. N'Jadaka's boys are waiting around outside, leaving you and him to sit in this quiet dive alone with no one else but an old man that keeps nodding off next to the jukebox. 

You stare at the line of empty shot glasses in front of you, bitterly unable to feel much different in your constitution. He slides your cell phone across the bar to you and you take it without a word in thanks. It's 1 in the morning.

Maybe you'll feel better after you shower and go to sleep, you think, but N'Jadaka stops you from trying to get up with one hand on your upper arm. He's been doing nothing but staring at you this entire time, not moving himself save for to pull a couple bills out to pay for your drinks and you wonder what he's thinking. Maybe he's doing the same. 

"____," he says, letting you go. "You good?"

Your mouth feels too dry, like it's full of sand so you only shrug halfheartedly in response. He only snorts at you before shaking his head and pointing to the crude bandage on your leg.  

"Aight, well, come on. That shit need to get stitched up."

This makes you speak for the first time in a while. "No hospitals. I really don't want to right now."

"Then I hope you got a high pain tolerance, baby," is all he says before giving you an amused snort because you know that he knows that you really don't. 

The pain is all you can think about when he carries you outside, and it's still on your mind on the very long drive to his house, and by the time the both of you are dropped off you're close to running away.

But his grip on you is stronger than your will at the moment, and he shoves you inside without missing a beat. You nervously watch him lock the door behind him, putting in the security code and it's funny how you're not sure you'll ever really feel safe when not in his presence again. It's an entirely new level of complications being added to the mess that is Dating a man like him and it's all enough to make you feel faint. 

He tells you to go shower first and that you do, afraid to look too closely at the blood washing off you and down the drain. The shower in his spare upstairs bathroom is a standard tub, and there's no way in hell he'd be able to comfortably fit in it. All N'Jadaka has is the soap that he uses, and now you find it's too strong for you in your current state but anything works to wash off the smell of dried blood stuck to you.

You feel like you may throw up as you watch it flow down your leg from the open wound that's being poorly covered by a dirtied cloth. It's throbbing with pain now, irritated by the water and soap, and that's your clue to hurry up and get out.  But you don't move, too comforted by the warm water washing over you and your twists, long since fallen out of the bun at the top of your head. He probably won't like it if you get water all over the place, you think, so you reach over to turn the faucet off with a sigh. 

Drying off quickly, you work on toweling off your dripping hair as best as you can but your twists probably won't be dry until tomorrow morning. 

You find a bit of morbid humor in all this as you pull on one of N'Jadaka's tee shirts, shaking your head at the fact that this series of unfortunate events all came to pass because you innocently just wanted him to take you on a proper 'date.' Something that proves he desires your company when you're just being you. 

He barks your name from the other room, shocking you out of your thoughts, and you put the finishing touches on your redone bun before scurrying out of the bedroom. You actually don't know how he's feeling about you looking so wrecked, having gotten nothing from him but silence and stares. The normal shit. It has your mind running a million miles a minute.

He stands as you enter his bedroom, tilting his head and furrowing his brow as he approaches you  wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging sweatpants and his chained ring. With calloused fingers he examines your clean face, devoid of all makeup and now sporting the bruise you definitely felt when your kidnapper hit you in the eye. There's an ugly knot starting to swell above it, which will be impossible to cover with makeup, but the thought goes straight out the window because that Look flashes across his face again. 

"I'm fine," you say, nearly pleading with your tone because you just want him to stop with that cold look in his eyes. "It's overwith, stop looking like that."

He drops his hand to the back of your neck, making you look up at him, before saying, "Stop thinkin' about it. You get used to the shit after a few times."

You shake your head. "I don't want to get used to it, and I shouldn't have to."

After a few seconds of silence, N'Jadaka suddenly chuckles at you before turning away to sit on the other side of the bed. 

"Nah, lil bit, you shouldn't have to."

You watch him lay a towel out on his bed before tossing a first aid kit right in the center of it. It bounces a bit, coming open and revealing rolls of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant. You hate the smell of that stuff most of all and if anything, that sensation alone is more liable to have you screaming rather than the pain.

The pain. You muse that it can't possibly hurt worse than how your leg currently feels, so there shouldn't be much to fear as you sit yourself on the black towel with hands clasped tightly together. Behind you, N'Jadaka starts rolling a blunt that he probably won't share with you so you return your gaze to your lap.

But then he nudges you, and the universe proves yet again that today is just full of surprises as he passes it to you with two fingers, already lit. He tells you to lay back just as you finish taking a long drag, and you welcome it because it's like a fuzzy blanket has been pulled over you. 

Maybe what he smokes is strong or maybe you just aren't used to weed anymore but either way you blow out a cloud of smoke and it feels like your stress goes along with it.  And you know it's not a permanent solution to what you've gone through tonight, but it's a start.

Although you're sure he's letting you take hits of it solely to serve as a lackluster painkiller to his homemade stitches. 

You keep staring at the ceiling, unwilling to look at your leg wound as he unwraps it, but you definitely feel the chilly air of the A/C hit it with an uncomfortable twang. He's warning you not to flinch too much, that if you kick him he's going to kick you back but you don't think he's serious. 

Once you hear the flicking of a lighter you screw your eyes shut, hands squeezing the sheets under you so tight you're afraid they'll rip. The blunt is completely forgotten now that N'Jadaka's wiping disinfectant over your wound because you know what's next. You know what the lighter was for and you know it's coming because there's no other reason for him to be rubbing slow circles on your other thigh like this. 

"Don't flinch," he repeats to you, and you nod even though he isn't looking your way. "Now you ain't wanna go to emergency so don't look at me funny when i'm finished."

"Okay!"

"I got you on the medical grade pharmaceuticals, though. You might need em, weak ass."

You stifle a laugh before covering your face with your hands to keep from crying out at the initial feeling of the needle piercing your skin. The entire, slow, process N'Jadaka assures you he knows what he's doing and that he's stitched up his own wounds many times before and that all you have to do is keep still. You try and explain to him in your crybaby manner, that it's incredibly hard to do so when you can feel everything happening below you. That it feels like white hot pain is radiating from that one spot up into your brain.

It only takes 5 or 6 stitches but it feels like hundreds by the time he snips the last of it with a pair of scissors. You're sweating when he gets up, breathing hard like you honestly just ran a mile, but it's over and that's all that matters. 

Wiping stray tears away from your eyes, you lean up and watch N'Jadaka put all of his first aid stuff away. "Hey.."

"Wassup," he shoots back, rummaging around the bottom drawer under the bathroom sink.

"You gonna make this up to me?"

"Where the hell you wanna go now," is his question as he re approaches you. "Hm?"

You try not to literally fall out mid-sentence, wanting to make sure you can accurately describe the frivolous purchase that might make you feel 0.2 percent better about this: A crossbody Chanel bag with the chain handle that you've been drooling over for absolute years.

When you finally spit it out, he nods, grabbing a lighter and reaching for the ashtray. He tells you he has you, like he always does.

But he's relighting that blunt, and that's all that matters. You half expect his petty ass to not share with you anymore but to your surprise he lets you at it until you're half drooling on his chest, and he's laughing at you for not being able to handle anything. 

You tell him it's not your fault he smokes horse tranquilizers disguised as weed and he only laughs harder, so hard his shoulders shake and you manage to smile through your sleepy delirium. 

At some point he taps the lamp and pulls the sheets over you and places, dare you say it, soft kisses down your face that you can barely acknowledge. You're too exhausted, mentally and physically, but you do manage to force an important inquiry through slightly parted lips. 

"Hey, N," you mumble, eyes closed. "Where the hell is my car?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did anyone notice i completely left out an entire paragraph back in chapter 11 i believe? When the shade room photo was brought up, i accidentally left out the entire section describing said picture lol .
> 
> It's been updated!


	16. lucidity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which you manage to make him actually laugh twice in one day

 

 

 

It occurs to you, on hour five of no sleep, that vintage Chanel handbags with the cute chain handle are more expensive than you originally thought. Not only that, but you can't seem to find one on the site that fits the one in your head. You'd seen it in an old paparazzi photo of Ariana Grande a couple years ago, and always liked it, but you think that maybe it was discontinued or custom made. 

Maybe you should ask for something else.

Exhaling long and hard through your nose you keep scrolling endlessly through your Instagram feed despite the fact that your eyes feel like they've dried out a long time ago. No matter what you do you can't sleep, even in a nice bed like this and even laying next to N'Jadaka, who radiates so much heat it'd be unbearable if he didn't have his A/C cranked so high.

All you see when you close your eyes is the faceless man. You shouldn't have looked, because there's only one way a person looks after having a full clip unloaded into their goddamn skull, but it was almost impossible not to. The past few hours you've been alternating between being angry at what happened to you and being angry at N'Jadaka for losing his cool like that. It, in some morbid way, lets you know that being in danger sent him into a fury at the very least but it doesn't lessen the effect.

It was sloppy, you think, and you wonder if he's ever gotten emotional in a fight like that before with that crazy look in his eyes. 

You think he's awake, because he keeps moving in regular intervals, but he hasn't said anything or touched you. He's giving you space, and you don't know if you appreciate it or not. Your mind is jumbled and fuzzy, but he says you'll get over it soon enough. 

At some point during a stupid meme video your eyes tell you to fuck off and you blink, so hard they water. The high has worn off and now you're faced with the reality of everything that happened today. Your poor car, shot full of holes and totaled because N'Jadaka is a speed demon, gone. He'd had the decency to have one of his boys get your stuff out of it afterwards, but you still feel some type of way because it was the first thing you ever got in your name. The insurance payout isn't going to be great, but you can't find it in you to dwell too much on it. 

Besides, he very much implied he'd take care of a new vehicle for you. And  _you_ very much implied you don't want a dumb, ritzy show car. The doors that open in weird ways, loud ass tires-it's not your gig.

You're sure he won't pay you any attention when it comes to your car preference.

Outside, you can hear birds start to chirp and you groan into the pillows below you. It must be a little too loudly, because N'Jadaka tells you to 'shut up' from somewhere behind you.

"Don't tell me to shut up," you mumble, rubbing at your eyes. 

"Then, shut up."

His voice sounds heavy with sleep, and you're jealous because you'd give anything to be able to do the same tonight. Or rather, morning. You have nothing to do, having watched a million youtube videos and binged several hours of  _Daria_ episodes in a row that only stopped once your phone started to get hot enough it scared you. Ontop of that, your stitches are throbbing and they itch. 

You'd chanced looking at them earlier and they look perfect, as perfect as they'd look if you were forced to do a bunch of paperwork and pay asinine hospital fees. 

"Can you stay up with me?" you ask rather pitifully, rolling over to face him. You're sure you look like a zombie in the eyes at this point and thank God for concealer. 

But he's already asleep again, and you see no point in being in bed. For a second earlier you'd considered sex but quickly decided against it on the grounds it just felt wrong. Maybe he thought so too, because you're wearing his tee shirt and nothing else and he hadn't even made some snide comment about your body.

AS carefully as you can you sneak out of bed and down the hall, too tired to feel afraid of the lower level of his house. Besides, the sun will be rising soon and you have more episodes of  _Daria_ to watch on his Hulu account. Stationed on his living room couch you wonder if he's even aware of the subscriptions he has, if they're just piled into his cable bill. 

It doesn't matter.

 

* * *

 

 

You jolt awake at the irritating feeling of the side of your head being mushed, sucking your teeth and glaring up at N'Jadaka as he stands behind the couch with his eyes on you. 

"What?" you snap, angry that what little sleep you got was just rudely interrupted. You didn't dream, or remember when you nodded off, only that the last characters you saw on screen were Jodie Landon and Michael MacKenzie.

He only mushes you again before walking off, asking, "You hungry?" as he does.

"I  _guess."_

"You 'guess,' huh." 

His voice is hard to hear at this point, so he must be in the kitchen. Peeling yourself off the couch, you pad across the hardwood floor that's cold on your bare feet. It's sunny out, you don't know what time of day it is, but it's bright enough in the kitchen for N'Jadaka to raise his eyebrows at your haggard appearance. 

He's got one hand on the refrigerator door  when he rudely says, "Damn, baby."

"Shut  _up,_ " you shoot back, reaching for a coffee mug. "I'm going through a lot right now."

"I see that."

He also sees the awkward way you keep moving your leg in your vain attempts at relieving the unbearable itching sensation where your stitches are. You want to scratch them so bad with your long acrylics, knowing full well you'd end up in the fetal position, and you end up scratching  _around_ the area so hard you're creating visible marks. 

The coffee maker is bubbling in front of you, nearly finished with your cup when your feet suddenly leave the ground. You barely react as N'Jadaka sets you on a stool, slapping your hands away as you keep trying to scratch the freshly tended-to wound. 

"If you pop em, I ain't redoin' it so you'd better call 911."

You scoff and watch him give you ice as a temporary remedy to press to the gauze on top of your stitches. 

"Wow," you say. "You wouldn't even take me? I'd have to pay for an unnecessary ambulance ride?"

"Yup," he goes, pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge. "That's gas money."

"Hm, well, what are you cooking?"

"I ain't cookin' shit."

You frown and say, "You asked me if I was hungry."

"Exactly. You know how to read takeout menus, baby, don't get bougie."

This makes you snort, which makes him call you 'goofy' again, and you think that maybe this is just his weird affectionate nickname for you. 

It gets weirdly silent afterwards, with you just staring at the dark liquid pouring into your mug and him just staring at you like he always does. You think that maybe you should talk about last night, but the idea of bringing it up is beginning to make you all hot and anxious. 

You glance over at him, and he's looking at you curiously, like he's trying to figure something out and it's a look you aren't used to getting from him. He may have been looking at you like this back at the barbecue, but his eyes were hidden with those shades. He could read you but you couldn't do the same. 

Finally, he seems to come to some conclusion about you, eyes not leaving yours even as he takes a massive drink of water. You just watch him pitifully, a million things running through your mind at once and you've always hated that. Sometimes things accidentally spill out and you end up embarrassing yourself with whatever shit your brain half-spat out. 

Your friends have told you you think too much and it's true, but it's not like you only saw a roach or something last night. You saw death, and lots of it. 

But your brain is on a different wave. 

"N," you start, frowning harder than you've been. "Can I ask you something?"

"Wassup."

"You're a man."

His eyebrows lift at this odd statement but he otherwise waits for you to continue. 

Sighing, you try and reform your weird phrasing. "I mean, men like shit so I mean...you have to be mad that I have a dusty ass gag refl-like, um-"

He suddenly cuts you off, laughing so hard water sprays straight out of his mouth and all over you and the table. You've never seen N'Jadaka laugh this hard, he's actually cracking up and you're so tired you only can half figure out why.

"Goddamn," he goes, still snickering. "- _what the fuck did you just say?_ "

Now you're laughing, you're so damn tired it's ridiculous. Your coffee is forgotten entirely as you try and explain your actual thought in between giggles, but luckily for you N'Jadaka seems to get what you're putting down. He only laughs at you again on your way up the stairs.

It's a very humiliating thing to feel insecure over your sexual skills, and it's even more annoying when the idea that that 'B' chick is apparently better than you in certain aspects. It's always in the back of your mind and it's annoying, and you'd take anything to distract you from what's keeping you up at night.

Sitting on the rumpled sheets, you insist he gives you reassurance that he isn't getting random head like some drunk frat boy. 

"No, ____," he says, scrolling through his cell phone. "If you that mad about it, get better at the shit."

"How can I get better when I gag that easy?" you ask, trying to find the scarf that never stays around your edges. Once it ended up under his bed. "You make me sick, you can't just  _let_ me do the bare minimum without bucking up and choking the shit out of me."

When you look at him, he's giving a shit-eating grin down at his phone. "Well.."

You nudge him in the side with your foot, because if he wasn't so damn rough during, you're sure you could actually perform better than turning into a pile of mush. He obviously doesn't have much of a problem with the fact that your gag reflex is so sensitive, but sometimes you wonder if it's really that or if it's his irritating tendency to grab the back of your head and damn-near start face fucking you. It's obnoxious, especially the way he sucks his teeth when you're drooling and retching all over the place afterwards.

Men are annoying, you muse once again as you lay on your back. You idly move around a single twist in between two fingers, closing your eyes and listening to whatever blown-out sound is coming through his cell phone. It sounds like it's at some party, and someone is screaming on the other end in their attempts to be heard above the music. It's definitely not helping you relax.

When you tell him this he doesn't respond, just takes his sweet time getting comfortable on his back with his eyes still glued to the cell phone screen, silenced for your convenience. You just watch his chest rise and fall with each breath,  and you can smell the coffee you left downstairs but now you don't think you have it in you to move. 

At least, not to get up and go back downstairs.

Watching N'Jadaka scroll through his cell phone gets old really quick and you feel like a cat as you rudely move his hands out of the way so you can lie down on top of him. You try not to crush any of his more delicate parts but nothing about what you're doing is sexual. That's not what you want right now. 

Maybe you'll want it later tonight, but for right now you just want his hands on you in some facet. 

"Play with my hair."

He just glances down at you, and you stare straight back from where you're stationed with your cheek pressed to his left pec. Sometimes you're still so much in awe at how soft the skin below his neck feels despite its appearance,  and the desire to just reach out and touch him whenever he's shirtless is a hard one to ignore. 

Your eyes idly travel to several random scars, comparing the different sizes of them and wondering why, before flicking up to match his. He actually looks annoyed, but in a way that isn't normal, but you lean up anyway with a comeback if you should need it. 

He only has a command. "Turn around."

That you do, getting off him and sitting cross legged with your back facing the headboard. In front of you, the tv is off and it reminds you that you left the one downstairs on, still paused in your random  _Daria_ episode. 

The bed dips behind you and you bounce a little, frowning at N'Jadaka as he walks past you and into the bathroom. Honestly, you half expect him to just leave you like this, ignoring your request because his idea of funny is being an asshole. Kind of like your friends,but less endearing. You're pleasantly surprised, however, when you watch him return to you with a comb and a small jar of hair grease. 

You aren't pleasantly surprised for long, though.

"Hey," you say, folding your arms. "You tryin' to say my scalp is dry?"

"That's what i'm sayin'," he shoots back without missing a beat. 

"Shut up!"

"I mean, chick I saw sittin' on that porch undoing them tight ass braids was a baddie. Don't know where she went."

You just turn around to glare at him, despite his playful tone, before saying, "Take me home to my makeup and clothes and you'll find out where she is.."

He goes 'what' at your sudden drop off, nudging you in the shoulder but you don't respond because you're too busy groaning into your hands at the fact that you just remembered something very important after his ribbing at you. Everything was supposed to go directly how you planned it on this nice Monday early afternoon, but your mental setback has all your plans on ice.

Your mattress, brand new and vacuum sealed, was due for delivery this morning and you were supposed to be there to sign for it. Not only that, but your bed frame and several other pieces of furniture for your struggling apartment are all arriving in quick succession just like you planned it weeks ago. That way, you could get the shit overwith and spend the rest of the week in IKEA, fawning over design ideas. 

You'd asked him if he wanted to go with you and he denied so quick you may as well have been asking for half his money.

Like usual, he isn't pressed (at  _your_ issues), and he only tells you to chill out as he drags you closer so you sit perfectly between his legs. "The office will have the shit, girl, stop actin' like that."

You hum to yourself, because you  _did_ move to a more upscale building, and while that doesn't necessarily mean shit you suppose your stuff is less likely to get stolen now. At your previous place, people's packages were being stolen almost every other day, and it got to the point where you were having anything bigger than an envelope sent to Kayla's house. And since she lived the closest, she'd come by like your own personal mail lady and drop your stuff off.

Sometimes the clothes boxes would be open already, but you never got too mad at her for being nosy. 

The first whiff you get of whatever grease N'Jadaka's using takes you straight out of your own head. It smells like coconuts and fruit, just so delightful that you feel like you want to eat it. He tells you it's not from some girl like you assume, or at least not this specific jar. One of his week long hookups left it over and he ended up using all of it to the point he'd actually bought his own.

That's funny to you, but you don't inquire any further on it. Instead, you close your eyes and relish at the feeling of him parting your twists (the length of which you're regretting) with the tail end of a rat-tail comb. Much like getting your hair washed by someone else, you think this is what dogs experience when you scratch their heads. 

It feels amazing, the room smells amazing too, and you're so relaxed you nod off three times before N'Jadaka tells you to just go to sleep. Your eyelids are heavy, but they don't stay closed now that you're just sitting there. This probably won't work either, but you give him a thankful kiss all the same.  You're secretly praying your breath is fine but after the fifth straight second where he  goes back in for another peck you're sure it is. 

You suddenly feel like crying and you don't want him to let go of you or stop, or leave you alone, or kill anyone else. You're selfish and you know that, but you think you should be allowed to be so when it comes to men. Men have hurt you, and they'll hurt you again, even if they don't mean to. And even if it was for your own protection. You're confused, and your head hurts so bad from your lack of sleep and food that you just start silently weeping. 

He honestly scared the absolute hell out of you last night.

"Stop," N'Jadaka says, using his palms to damn near scrape your tears off your face. You're just waiting on him to call you a crybaby but it never comes. Instead, he presses one long, final kiss to your forehead before getting up. 

You're too shocked at the affectionate gesture to do much of anything but dumbly watch his back as he starts rummaging around in a bathroom drawer. 

"That's my bad," he says, voice echoing from within. "You ain't need to see all that shit. That's...damn. My bad."

 

-

 

When you wake up from your dreamless nap you feel like you've traveled through time. It comes in sections; first your brain, then your ears, your nose. Your eyes won't work, though, and you're a little afraid you're experiencing Sleep Paralysis by the way they just can't open. 

You hear the faint signs of the tv, Martin is on, before you smell something delicious coming from downstairs. It's not clear what it is, but it smells fried, and that alone has you gathering the strength to roll over and stretch. That's when you feel a harsh smack on your ass.

"What?!" you yelp, flinching. Your eyes shoot open to see N'Jadaka standing at the foot of the bed with a bundle of clothes in his hands. Closer inspection reveals it to be one of your old tee shirts and a pair of athletic shorts.

"You went to my apartment?" you ask, sitting up. The tee that you've been wearing has completely hitched up to your waist in your (apparent) restless sleep.  You suppose that he couldn't help himself during this full moon of yours and you snort as you take the clothes from him.  "I hope you got my mattress and stuff inside."

He only grunts.

It's weird how even more exhausted you are after your nap, and you  find that you can't do anything but flop back down on your back with your eyes closed. Staying in bed all day is for the positively lazy; and everyone knows they have their self-care technique all the way together because if they didn't they wouldn't be so happy in doing nothing.

"I only came in here to see if you was up," N'Jadaka says.

"Well i'm not," you lie, peeking up at him. 

"You need to eat."

You shrug flippantly, closing your eyes again because you don't feel like doing that either. You just want to sleep until your mind stops running about things you don't want to think about. You want to have dreams and wake up chuckling about them, not fall into 87 different weird limbo-esque power naps throughout the day.

N'Jadaka calls your name. 

Now you're kind of getting an attitude, because you feel like shit and going to sleep only made it worse. That pounding migraine between your eyes grows stronger by the minute, and your eyes have never felt so dry in your entire life. Your body feels sluggish, lethargic, and empty. And yes you're hungry but you don't think you could eat. This is clearly frustrating the hell out of N'Jadaka, because he's huffing and sucking his teeth behind you like you're insulting him by being like this. 

Maybe you are.

And maybe, you shouldn't be here at all. Maybe what you need to get out of this funk is to do literally anything else for a while. Hang out with your friends, revisit your parents and get King, or maybe just go shopping or something to take your mind off it all. It's a damn shame that you've lamented the loss of your Mom's home cooked food more than the car it was lost in, though. 

And whatever you smell downstairs is  _really_ nice....

You know N'Jadaka doesn't like repeating himself, and you half expect him to just walk off but instead he's just staring at you like some disgruntled father. It's funny, he's  _really_ frustrated at this entire situation. You can just tell because this isn't something he can charm or fuck his way out of.  It's not like you're happy about this either, but it is what it is. If the two of you are going to be 'together,' he's going to have to deal with your downs. 

He mumbles something under his breath in Xhosa as you pass him to go to the bathroom, and you see him sitting on the edge of the bed and glaring at you right before you shut the door. You begin the slow process of putting your twists  into one big plait in order to fit it on top of your head, all the while staring at your sorry expression in the pristine mirror. In your opinion, you've never seemed so raggedy in your life. Your skin, normally obsessively moisturized, seems dull and washed out, and you're definitely in need of a wax appointment.

Not for him, but for you and the uncomfortable prickly feeling of new growth; you suppose that's how you end up having to keep going back. 

You've just turned the shower on when you notice your makeup bag sitting on the sink, right next to another bag full of your toiletries thrown together and you have half a mind go ask him if he's trying to say something. But if he'd gone to your apartment there's no way he would only grab you a shirt and shorts. Judging by your stuff in the bathroom, he seems to be implying you're staying a few days. 

It's just as well, it's not like you have transportation. 

From in the bedroom, you hear your cell phone ringing, and you have an internal struggle on whether or not you want to bother answering it. Ultimately, your better half wins and you peek outside the bathroom to see if you're alone in the room. It feels weird to sneak, but anything to not be stared at like that.

You grab the phone and answer it without paying attention to the contact. It's like a new way of playing Russian Roulette. 

"Hello?"

Sydney's voice calls to you on the other end. There's music in the background and the sound of wind. "Hey! Are you at home?"

"No," you answer with a frown. You'd honestly would rather be. "Why?"

You can practically  _hear_ her shrug from the other end. "I don't know, I'm bored. Kayla's on a date with that coworker she met and  _I_ need to be kept off Tinder for a while so distract me! Let's go somewhere."

"Where?"

"I don't know, bitch, somewhere. The movies, out to eat-something."

You just make a low noise under your breath, because you need to do  _something_ to get your mind off everything but the idea of doing so kind of has you thinking of any kind of excuse. 

Sydney gets you, though, and she only sighs on the other end before speaking with a smile in her voice. "Okay, girl, I get it. Have ya dick appointments, spend time with ya fine ass man,  we'll link up this weekend."

Is it bad to be relieved, you wonder? "So what are you gonna do tonight?"

"I'm gonna find  _me_ a dick appointment."

"I thought you were stayin' off Tinder," you say, reaching into the shower to check the temperature. She laughs.

"This one?" she goes. "He's graduated to iMessage."

Now you have to laugh as you bid her goodbye with a promise for her to be careful. Your friends are great, and you care a lot about them, but they care a lot about you as well. That's the problem you're facing, you think as you step under the warm stream. If any of your friends or your family were to see you in this state, you're positive they'd forcefully remove you from N'Jadaka's presence.

You'd have to lie, lie about your bruises and your knife wound and try to sell them this far-fetched story about you being kidnapped by some guy who wanted money from your man. They'd want to know why if they even believe you, and you know for a fact you can't just go running off at the mouth about who he is despite the fact it's not technically a secret. 

Only his name is, and you wonder if it's by habit at this point, because the news report you read mentioned his relation to T'Challa after all that shit went down. That's a whole other bag of worms, and you'd really wish he'd get over his reluctance to open up to you. It's not like you want a Shakespearean monologue; you just want to know the whole story. 

When you exit the shower,  your head hurts even worse, and you'd like to personally punch whoever told you steam would help with migraines. 

There isn't any aspirin in the medicine cabinet, and the linen closet is locked, so you're forced to wobble into the hallway praying you won't drop your towel and trip over it. It's something that would definitely happen to you. 

The other upstairs bathroom yields the same results, and you almost turn to go down the steps but you hear a noise coming from further down the hall. Truthfully, the creepy statue at the end of the hall effectively keeps you from back there, and it doesn't help that the doors are always super locked like he's hiding something.

There are three doors back here, and you assume they're bedrooms being used for other things. The one farthest from you is ajar, and for some reason you're creeping toward it as if it's actually someone other than N'Jadaka rummaging around inside it. 

You knock anyway, looking at the floor less you see something you don't want to. 

There's no answer so you go to knock again but he snaps at you from within. 

"What?!"

"Can I come in?" you ask, rolling your eyes at his tone of voice. "My head hurts."

"So?"

You huff. " _So_ you need to give me some aspirin, stupid. Don't get an attitude at me."

You're already glaring at him by the time he appears in the doorway, closing the door behind him before you can see all the way in. There's either guns and shit in there or tons of 'reclaimed' artifacts, you think, or maybe nothing but a walk-in closet. You just know that the one in his bedroom can't be it. 

He has a bag in his hand that he thrusts at you; the Coach bag with the purse you bought the day he decided to humiliate you for 'flirting' with T'Challa, and you give him a condescending look as you take it. 

"Thank you," you say. "I forgot I threw it at you."

"You forgot, huh," he says, 'pushing' you to the side as he passes. You push him back but he's so solid he doesn't even budge. So you keep trying, and you can hear him snickering at your piss-poor attempts at getting him to hurry up down the hall before he finally reaches back and grabs you. 

He tells you you're irritating as he carries you like a sack of flour into his bedroom, roughly depositing you on the bed. You don't think you're ever going to get used to him just lifting you like you weigh nothing; it's equal parts exciting and unsettling. He goes over to the medicine cabinet that you couldn't open, pushing some switch at the bottom that releases the lock and just like that you have a bottle of aspirin. 

You swallow them dry to which N'Jadaka looks at you like he's impressed. It doesn't last long, though, quickly turning into something else the longer he looks at you in just a bath towel. You don't want him to get too excited, and you make that clear by gripping it tighter against you. Now he just looks confused.

"What?"

Shrugging, you say, "I don't know."

He just makes the same long exhaling noise he's done before, letting you know he's just as frustrated as he was earlier, and you don't know what to do about it. The thoughts are coming back, the visualizations of the faceless man and all the blood and the smell of that room when it was all done and you feel close to a sudden panic attack as it's all so overwhelming and so sudden. 

You're really over feeling like this, and you bitterly wish you were one of those weird internet girls who blogged about gross shit all the time to the point you were desensitized to it. However, you think those same girls would probably react the same as you did.  

"Hold up!" you suddenly shout. He's halfway out the door but he only mumbles something about having to do something  downstairs and then you're alone.

You bite your lip and wait. 5 minutes turns to 15, and 15 to 30, but by then you're moisturized and dressed and solemnly laying on your stomach with your eyes trained on the tv. You're hungry but you don't feel like eating; you're sleepy but don't feel like sleeping. You have half a mind to ask if he has any sleeping pills. 

A full two Daria episodes pass by  before N'Jadaka returns with a styrofoam takeout container and a cup of something sitting ontop. He completely ignores you to set it on the nightstand closest to the side he sleeps on, before getting in bed and roughly using your back as a footrest. It feels like you bruise immediately.

You groan into the comforter before trying to get up. "You're rough as hell even when you're playing- are you trying to kill me?"

He shrugs, giving you that combination bedroom eye-smirk that you absolutely hate because it works on you every damn time. He's got a fresh blunt in his hand and a lighter in the other, and one of these days he's going to have to show you what's in that bedside drawer. You're in his lap before you even know what you're doing, your Daria binge forgotten as you get ready to try and get some things off your chest.

All you can say is, "I'm mad at you.," as you take the first pull.

He snorts. "I know."

"I don't ever wanna go to an art museum with you again; it's bad luck."

At this, he shrugs and says, "Maybe it is."

"Take me shopping, tomorrow."

"Aight."

The two of you just stare at each other; you, nervously, and him blankly. It's quiet save for Daria's sardonic voice coming from behind you, and that theme song that's probably been stuck in your head for over a decade. 

You make an overly sweet request to retwist his dreads for him, and he actually agrees without some witty quip about your twists. Doing hair isn't something you really put much effort into; only helping out your younger cousins ever so often when their mother's didn't have the time so you know your way around a comb. 

Rolling his hair inbetween your fingers you wonder what beauty supply stores are nearby as you do so. You hate that you're having so many pleasant thoughts about his appearance because he sees fit to ruin it by insulting you.

"You look like shit."

You take your hand back and stare at him like he's lost his mind, because even if you do look tired as hell, he could have worded it better than that. He's trying to get a reaction out of you, like always, but you wonder if he's laying it on thick now to get you in a different state of mind. 

It's amazing, you muse sarcastically. So noble. 

You actually feel like laughing for the first time in hours as the two of you continue to trade insults back and forth under a shroud of weed smoke. They range from childish to petty to downright scathing, and the fact that you're just sitting in his lap while doing so is probably the most humorous part of it all. He goes on to insult your lack of sex appeal, adding on that it's a waste because of your body, and at this you have to roll your eyes.

"I walk around damn near naked whenever I can," you say incredulously. 

"If you had It, you could be wearin' a big ass velour sweatsuit from 2002 and still pull niggas. It don't matter what you wear."

"I don't have an issue with that, apparently," you add, going by your friends' testimonies. "And if I don't, why'd you single me out at the barbecue?"

He says, "Thought you was fine," but you squint at the cadence in which he says it.

"Thought?" you ask, slapping his hand off your butt. "What, I'm not anymore?"

There's a  _big_ pause as he just looks you up and down, pretending to be deep in thought like a liar, and you just fold your arms and wait for the inevitable bullshit that's going to come out his mouth. 

And finally, after an agonizing 35 seconds, he shakes his head and says, "Nah."

Shrugging, your response is, "You're the one with the patchy ass beard."

Maybe you shouldn't have said it as he was taking a sip of whatever drink (that was probably meant for you) from the nightstand. Maybe you should have waited for him to swallow, but there was no way to know he'd suddenly burst out laughing and spray you with what tastes like overly-sweet kool aid. Wherever he got the food from must have been close to your old neighborhood because you can't imagine the bougie places around here having kool aid on the menu in fat styrofoam cups. 

"My mouth was open!" you shriek, watching him die in front of you. There's kool aid dripping down his chin and into the beard that you just called patchy, and his eyes are screwed all the way shut because being high means you're suddenly the funniest person alive. You tell him to stop laughing so hard because it's freaking you out, and he only tells you to shut your 'goofy ass' up. 

N'Jadaka's plan, while stupid, did succeed in taking your mind off of what was bothering you most. Sure, it isn't going to make you forget what happened last night and it isn't going to make the aftermath any easier, you're thankful for his horse tranquilizer ass weed because it takes you from cracking up to a dreamless sleep in less than 30 minutes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im creatively BLOCKED the next chapter may be a while im sorry eklsfdg  
> (this story is also on wattpad!! the only difference is that there is a little picture or gif at the start of every chapter!)


	17. off to the races

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "my old man is a bad man but, i can't deny the way he holds my hand .. "

It's night when you wake up feeling more tired than you started off, sluggish and weak and aching in muscles you don't remember stressing. Your left arm is asleep from where you've been laying ontop of it, and you wave it around wildly to regain the feeling back in it. You just want this to be over; the day that's lasted forever.

You're alone, a conclusion you come to after sprawling out over the cool sheets and feeling nothing, and that has you irritated enough to get out of bed. The clock on the nightstand tells you it's a little after midnight and you come limping out of the dark bedroom scratching your stomach under your shirt lazily. It's chilly, and dark, but you can hear noise coming from downstairs. Normally, your paranoia would keep you underneath N'Jadaka's comfortable sheets, but in your groggy half-awake state you don't give a fuck.

But If it isn't him, then..

Quietly, you call out, not using his name in case he has shady late night company but you get no answer. But rather than be scared you walk right into the living room where the noise is coming from. There's no horrible scene or other girl in here like you half thought, only him and that tv and his hands. It's scandalous, you think, but you can't tear your eyes away from the way he's stroking himself. Whenever the two of you have slept together, he's only ever given a few pumps to hurry it up before wrecking you, and you never thought much of it. But now you feel creepy, like you've intruded on something very very private, despite the fact that you've seen and  _experienced_ lewder scenes. But he doesn't know you're standing there, so that makes it weird.

So you try and turn tail, quickly and quietly, but it's too dark and you catch the corner of the wall with your foot. It feels like your soul leaves your damn body and like you broke every bone in your foot but you keep it moving toward the stairs. You hear a faint ' _what the fuck'_ before you clamber up the stairs and back into the bedroom. You're listening behind the bedroom door like a robber, heart pumping a hundred miles a second at the thought of him following you upstairs. 

All kinds of thoughts are running through your brain, and one of them being how disgustingly parched you are. You'd waken up with dry mouth, and you'd have gotten a glass of water had N'Jadaka's stupid dick not distracted you.  And now you're thinking about  _it_ alongside that damn delicious water that comes out of his sink filter. Water, water, water. Water is wet, and you keep repeating it in your mind as you tiptoe back down the stairs because it's the only thing keeping you from thinking about other things that tend to get wet.

You don't even look toward the living room, just scurrying into the kitchen, lit only by the light under the microwave. As quiet as you can you take a glass from the cabinet over the dishwasher, pushing the faucet up just enough as to allow a small stream of water to pass through the filter. It takes forever, but it works, and just as you take a sip the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up. Almost immediately, your fight or flight response is activated and you half expect a gunman to be standing behind you ready to kidnap you again.

You just take a few heavy gulps before setting the glass down into the sink, shouting as a pair of arms appear on either side of you. It's only him.

"Don't scare me like that!" you whisper harshly, hands trembling. "How are you so quiet?"

"The fuck you creepin' around here for?"

You turn around then, wondering if you scared him as well when you hit your foot on the wall. Snorting, you push the thought away because how on earth could you possibly scare a man like him? It's silly, and you sigh, pressing your forehead to his chest in defeat. You close your eyes and he lets you stand there for an impressive amount of time before you remember what you interrupted.  

"Sorry," you say, chuckling. "Uh, I'll go back upstairs and you can keep doing you."

The wording makes you chuckle even harder, and as you try and go he gets a firm hold of your arms. You look up at him curiously, following silently along as he drags you forward and into the living room. That familiar tingling in your loins comes back as you get nearer to the couch, and by the time he's pushed you back onto the firm cushions  you just want to yank your shorts off before they're ruined. 

It's freezing on the first floor, and you shiver as he slowly sits down next to you. There's some unspoken word going on here, and you're really trying not to look at what debauchery is probably taking place on his big flatscreen in front of you. You can definitely hear it, though, and it's beginning to make you even more eager to hop right on in his lap.

As a last ditch effort to ignore the urge, you go, "I can't believe you watch porn on your tv. Don't you have a laptop?"

Casually, he goes, "Yeah."

"So why don't you use it?"

"Because I don't. You got any other dumb ass questions?"

You shake your head and just stare at him with your lips pursed in irritation, half leaning on the back of the couch as you watch him try and act like he isn't uncomfortably hard. It's obvious, the bulge in the front of his sweatpants, and you just keep staring him dead in the eye as amused as you can possibly be at his forced nonchalance. Honestly, you can't tell if you ruined his mood or if he's acting coy but the fact that he hasn't just pulled it out in front of you is surprising.

Unless.

Uncomfortably, you re position yourself, taking the tv remote and going back to regular cable channels. You ask if he minds despite the fact that you've already found some reruns of  _Martin_ on. It's starting to get entirely too entertaining to act like everything's cool, and you have to stop yourself from smiling when you take the blanket from over the top of the couch and pull it over you. He shifts uncomfortably when you put your head on his lap, letting out a sound that's like air being let out of an air mattress and the Martin intro isn't even over before you can't take it anymore and you just start giggling. 

"I'm sorry," you go, rolling onto your back to look up at him. "I can't sleep."

He doesn't say anything at this, only squinting at the humorous tone in your voice and honestly you don't blame him. Being sleep deprived and annoyed at yourself doesn't really equal a well adjusted individual, and you think it's probably the lack of outlet allowing you to spend too much time with your thoughts. It's messy up in your head and you'd do anything to stop feeling this way and with one final sigh you decide to cut the bullshit and lean back up. It's weird to ask a man like him for a hug and you still haven't found the nerve to do anything but awkwardly hold your arms out toward him.

"You get on my nerves," is all he says but he yanks you closer all the same. "You need somethin' to do."

Snuggling into his side you shrug and reply, "If I thought you were serious, I'd be hurt."

"I am serious."

The episode onscreen is back from commercial so you ignore his snide comment to stare at how laid Pam's ponytail is because she'd always had the best style and fashion sense. After season one, anyway. Looking at all of those 90s throwback outfits really has you wanting to go shopping but the thought of doing so with N'Jadaka has you paranoid.  He isn't the type for security, or bodyguards, and despite the fact that he'd rescued you with those 'friends' of his you know they aren't the same thing. 

To prevent any future incidents of the like you'd have to literally be up under him in public and that's something that would irritate the both of you, you think. It's ironic how your first actual 'date' ended in murder and you wonder if that's a sign that this partnership is ill-fated. 

Damn occupational hazards.

At some point during the episode, he hitches one of your legs over his lap and you feel his rough hand slide right up your upper thigh. You close your eyes and shiver, reaching down to hold his hand right in place because you may actually catch an attitude if he stops. Having your butt grabbed isn't really an act you can say you're used to, despite having multiple men try it over the years, but you've found it's your favorite thing he does. The two of you just hold it, whatever desire you're suppressing and whatever he is, for the longest time because you're not sure if it'll work. 

You're sure he hasn't touched you since because he thinks you need space and you were fine with it because you thought the same, but now you don't know. 

After a while N'Jadaka jostles you with the arm that's been around your shoulders. 

"Aye..," he goes, his voice trailing off into uncharacteristic silence. You look up at him curiously and see he's looking right back at you. "The other night.."

And he just stops, apparently struggling to find the words and you are absolutely shocked that he's at a loss. You've never heard him fail to speak since you've met him. Granted, you've only known him for a little over a month, but it's still so odd to see the walking personification of swagger and fuckboy smirks so...silent.

"That nigga ain't touch you did he?" he finally asks, speaking in a tone that implies he's about to get really mad depending on your answer. He's breathing a little harder through his nose and gripping you a little too tight and you have to violently shake your head less he breaks you in half by accident. 

"No," you say. "Not like that, N."

He says your name, low, like a warning not to lie to him and for a second you want to roll your eyes because what is he going to do if you're lying? Go torch the guys corpse? You're almost positive that fool is literally floating down river in pieces by now, or however people like N'Jadaka dispose of people they kill. It's not something you want to think about anymore.

"No," you repeat. "I'm not lying."

"Real shit."

"Real. Shit."

And he stares at you dead in the eyes in that way you don't like, like he's reading your thoughts or peeling away your inner self layer by layer until he figures out if what you're saying is true or not. You have to insist that if the faceless man had done anything like  _that_ to you, you'd hardly be as upset about his demise as you are now. 

Now you have to wonder, though, as you up to touch the side of his face to get his attention. His beard that you called patchy doesn't feel like a brillo pad and for that you're happy. 

"Is that what you were worried about?" you ask, taking your hand back. "I was honestly startin' to think you thought I was ugly all day."

"I don't fuck with ugly girls."

"I cannot  _stand_ you."

You watch him get up to go use the bathroom before using the moment to smell your shirt. Discreetly and as fast as you can you perform a crude 'freshness' test on yourself, the same ones you often found yourself doing in the mornings following a nighttime 'appointment.' It's kind of lame that women have to be so hyper aware of everything in the presence of men, and you're sure they don't have that problem. In fact, you know they don't, because they're wack men who make you feel like you  _have_ to get the hair on your body violently torn away. 

Speaking of which, you make a mental note to treat yourself to a sort of spa day soon to get your spirits up. You kind of want to do it alone, outside the realm of your friends because at this point you'd probably blurt out what happened and make them worry.

When N'Jadaka finally comes back from upstairs, you turn to look at him from your spot on the couch. He's rubbing the back of his head as he approaches, but you're too busy staring at his body as if it's the first time you've seen him.  

It's like every time you see him this ugly primal urge to go absolutely wild takes over you and you can't tell if it's lack of an outlet for your sexual frustration from your previous relationship or what. You've discussed many times with your friends how you fear he's been turning you into a freak, but they only laughed at you.

Your eyes fall to his low hanging sweats next, lingering on the very obvious print before flicking up to meet his own. Petty as it was, you do kind of feel bad for interrupting his 'alone time.' 

He's watching you ogle him, his lips slowly curling upward into that knowing smirk you hate to love. The second he does it you're stuck and he's on you, pushing you flat on your back and yanking your shorts down.  You try and reach down to pull at his sweatpants but he swats your hands away, his mouth pressed harshly to yours. 

You think he's been eating candy while he was down here, and honestly you kind of want some because all you can taste is fruity-something as he devours you. He's kissing you like he's missed you, and it's funny because you were only gone for a few hours you think.  But you were gone nonetheless, and the way his hands are gripping and rubbing and palming lets you know your absence was felt. 

Every time you try and speak he finds a way to shut you up, and by the fourth harsh connection of his hand to your thigh you know what the hell this is. He isn't even talking shit like usual, just giving you the beginnings of ugly lovebites all down your chest. That shirt of yours, all tangled and bunched up at your neck, finally comes off when he lifts you up with two hands under your back. The action causes your twists to fall from their bun, sweeping over your bare back and chest in a way that you're sure lifts N'Jadaka because he's looking at you like you're a goddess come to Earth.

Or maybe you're projecting, but the desire in his half-lidded eyes is unmistakable. That with the fresh sheen of sweat building up on his chest already, the movements of it heaving with every labored breath he takes makes you think of a line from that song Sydney kept blasting on Snapchat during her worst dickmatized moments.

_Hon, you've never looked so beautiful, as you do now, my man._

Chest pressed to his, you're not given any more time to let the cooing of a popular singer float through your mind as he hisses something in that language you don't know into your ear. He speaks as if you know what he's saying, and maybe you do because his eyes and his grip on your behind are wonderful translators. He keeps looking at you and you do the same, so caught up in his gaze that you forget when you've started riding him. Or rather, when he's made you. 

It's strange, you think, how you can't look away from him as you do so and how he can't do the same. Everytime you think he may get tired of rocking you so slow against him he doesn't, just keeps looking at you. Your forehead is pressed to his and all you can do is appreciate his remembrance of the fact that the only way you're comfortable in this position is if he isn't slamming up into you like a silicon sex toy. Once you're sure he hit a spot so deep you felt it all the way up in your damn neck, in the worst way.

You think of that song again when he's groaning against your lips, shuddering underneath you in short upward spasms that are threatening to make your toes curl  if he keeps it up. But he won't, you know he won't, because he just came and he probably won't feel like finishing you off for another 5 minutes or so. Usually he lasts a lot longer, too damn long sometimes, so you only have the fact that he was halfway there when you came downstairs to blame.

After a few seconds N'Jadaka finally lets go of your hips, breathing out a " _Fuck,"_ as he does so.

It's dead silent in the living room, one of you having accidentally muted the tv by leaning on the remote at some point, and your ears are ringing so hard you can hear nothing but your thoughts. They're running, screaming, writhing with both pain and pleasure and you don't know what to do. As you look at him underneath you, you feel close to a scary epiphany. And that damn Sydney and her bluetooth speakers and that damn song. 

"Damn," is what he says after a while, running a rough hand up your side. "You got a nigga wantin' to get yo ass pregnant."

You have to laugh incredulously. "Some of the shit you say is really out of pocket."

When did any variation of  _Have my babies_ become a suitable compliment past the medieval era, you wonder, smacking him on the chest with both hands at once. He ignores it to keep staring at your hips, the weirdo. 

"You want kids?" he suddenly asks, looking at you intensely. But in all honesty, his looks are always pretty intense. 

You shrug, readjusting yourself on his lap. "I don't know. Yes. Maybe. Only one, though."

"Only one."

"I've always been afraid though," you admit, shrugging again. "The women in my family are crazy fertile, I'm afraid i'll end up with sextuplets when I finally try. Like, i'd be the one it would happen to."

Just how you've gotten on this subject is a mystery to you, other than N'Jadaka's weird appreciation for your body and its possible child bearing properties And just like that you're not even worried about your satisfaction, too caught up in scoffing at the man underneath you.

Without warning, you ask, "You got kids? That you know of?"

And without skipping a beat, he replies, "Nah."

"Mm.."

"What you takin'?"

"What?" you go, confused before it sinks in. "Oh. The pill. I take it back-to-back so I don't get periods-  _why_ do you need to know all this."

He scoffs. "You act like I ain't been rawin' you from the beginning."

Now that he's brought it up, you're off him and scurrying over to the bathroom to clean up. It's a  _BIG_ problem, you think, that you let him forego condoms so much at the start. Not only that, he hasn't been pulling out like he used to. If any of your friends knew that you've done all of this with him without being tested first they'd kill you; flat out strangle you to death and toss you in the ocean.

Pulling up your shorts you get straight to business, calling out to N'Jadaka from the bathroom your important request. He acts like he doesn't hear you despite the fact that the acoustics in the bathroom definitely made your voice echo straight across the neighborhood, and you're forced to repeat yourself with a nervous attitude.

"I'm serious," you go, fiddling with the hem of your tee. "We can't do this anymore-"

"Do what?" he snaps, turning around to face you from the couch. You roll your eyes.

"Sex! Get tested for me. But this shit isn't happening anymore until you do!"

"So I have to, but you don't."

"Trust me, I'm clean," you snort, having been tested multiple times after your ex cheated. "If you are, anyway."

He looks as if you've insulted him by temporarily closing off access to what you assume is his favorite part of you. You don't care, your fragile mindset as of late is already swimming with worst case scenarios for taking these risks. 

You half expect him to argue with you and you're ready for it, but all N'Jadaka does is mumble something about making an appointment tomorrow with the cadence of some bad ass kid that's been backed into a corner. If anything, you don't want to catch any residuals from that B chick, especially since you don't know how long he'd been messing around with her before he met you. 

God, you just want to snatch a wig or two. Just once.

 

* * *

 

 

_16 missed calls. 10 unread texts._

You stare at your cellphone mournfully, wrapped up in what feels like several yards of sheets that still smell like the store they were bought in despite your cleaning. You're at home, bundled in your new bed on your new bedframe in your new apartment that you aren't too used to yet. 

When you got in you were pleasantly surprised; N'Jadaka had set it up for you when you were at his place dreaming of faceless men. You'd thought he'd only just pull all your stuff into the living room and leave it at that. He seems to be worried about you, in his very not-obvious way, and it took several minutes of bugging him to get him to take you home. Just like in the car at the museum, when you'd whined like a crybaby to get your way, it worked.

Maybe that isn't the lesson you should be taking out of it, but, hey.

Your self-imposed mental exile, while short, is apparently alarming your friends to no end despite the fact that they should be used to you needing alone time once in a while. Still, you think you owe them an update that you're still alive. They haven't  _completely_ warmed up to N'Jadaka just yet.

 

_> what do you 2 sirens want?_

Rather than a text response, you get a phone call immediately from Kayla. You can only imagine what she's going to scream into your ear but it will definitely be something so you toss your cell onto the bed after pressing the speaker button. 

"What?" you go tiredly, rolling onto your back to see what King's doing in the corner of your bedroom. He's always getting into something; too quietly, like N'Jadaka. 

Kayla all but causes your speaker to blow out when her voice finally carries through it, screeching about screenshots and theshaderoom. King gets spooked into barking and you have to shush him before your migraine comes back. You live a loud life all of a sudden, it seems.

"Kay," you say, sighing. "Repeat that. Slow, please."

She sighs from the other end before going, "Why did I see you on theshaderoom again?? It got deleted in like 10 minutes which is wild but I saw it, and Sydney saw it, and the both of us wanna know why you were in the backseat of a black Explorer covered in blood and crying next to that fine piece of ass you got?"

It takes a few seconds of you squinting at the ceiling with your mouth hanging open to realize what she said. It only takes a couple more seconds to remember that one of N'Jadaka's nameless boys had his phone out at one point but you didn't think much of it. You can only assume he'd posted it on his own shit, had it reposted by someone else who tagged the bane of your online existence and all you want to do is scream. The fact that it was deleted makes you believe N'Jadaka had it taken down and it's a little impressive but you're too busy groaning into the air to dwell too much on it. 

Kayla breaks the silence in her eloquent way: "He didn't beat you the fuck up did he? Because I'd kill him. And then you."

"And then me," you repeat, snorting. 

"For making me worry," she adds. "I'd revive you don't worry."

"I didn't know you possessed such powers! Maybe you should be an X-Men. Or an Avenger. I'm sure I could ask someone to call Tony Stark for you-"

She laughs at you which makes you laugh as well, and you're glad to have a reason to. "Shut up. But forreal-"

"No," you interrupt. "He didn't beat me up. He saved me, actually. He's...too good at fucking people up though because it kind of fucked me up."

And you leave it at that, not wishing to elaborate any further on what you mean, and despite Kayla's protest she allows the conversation to be steered in a different direction. You talk about T'Challa, because she wants to know what he's like, before moving on to the fact that you  _really_ want gummy bears and slim jims to which she  wants to know if you're pregnant.

"No!" you shout, frowning because this subject has come up twice now. "Why would I be pregnant? I take birth control."

"And you're also forgetful as shit," she adds, humming. "Especially since you went so long without sex. I guess it don't matter anyway, right? Your chicken ass is probably making him wear 8 condoms at once."

Now she's making you nervous, despite the fact that you  _definitely_ remember taking your pills but all it takes is one ounce of doubt to make you start freaking out. You damn break your ankles with how hard you jump out of bed, dancing around your barking puppy to tear into the living room and find your purse. It's where you left it; on the bar in the kitchen, and you dump the contents out on the surface without a second thought. Stray coins go rolling across the floor and under the couch as you sort through all the random receipts and crap to find the lone foil packet with your birth control in it. 

Your hands are shaking a little as you count all the days down one by one, feeling more and more at ease as each day comes up with an empty hole. 

But then you get to the day you were kidnapped, and the day after that, and today, and three little white tabs stare right back at you where there should be none.

You can hear Kayla calling your name from the other room but you're too busy trying to remember exactly what your doctor said when you'd gone in for these pills a few months ago. Your anxiety is preventing any coherent thought from passing through your brain so in a blind panic you rush back to your cell phone back to Kayla.

"I'll call you back!" you shriek, trying not to sound too panicked, and you hang up before she even gets a chance to respond.

Suddenly, you feel the need to ask a hypothetical question to someone that's most likely much smarter than you. 

N'Jadaka doesn't pick up until the last possible ring. He offers you a lazy, "Wassup," in greeting.

"Can I ask you something?" It's getting difficult to control your breathing.

"I guess."

"Well," you start, closing your eyes. "There's more than one type of birth control pill, right?"

"Yeah."

"What are they? Like, is there a difference? Kayla's trying to get pregnant and wants to know when she would be able to when she stops taking them."

He snorts before giving you a smart-ass quip that you don't appreciate. "You couldn't look this shit up on the internet?"

You scream at him to stop testing you, that you need this info for one of your friends because she called you crying, and he only laughs at your strained voice before complying. He can't be stupid enough to fall for your 'my friend' trick, but you can't let him think anything else. And for that, you lie.

And it's  _definitely_ a lie because no way in hell are you trying to get pregnant.

"Combination and progestin-only," he says, clearly doing something else on the other end. He sounds like he can barely be bothered. "What is she takin'."

"'She's' taking progestin-only pills," you add, biting your lip. "She'd only be able to get pregnant after like a month, right? She'd have to start ovulating again."

"Nah," he says, and you hear the rumbling of his car engine. "No estrogen; she could technically get pregnant immediately after she stopped. She got about... Ion know, a few hours before the effectiveness drop? Shit, I don't remember."

"Fuck."

"Whatchu mean, 'fuck.'"

And you hang up. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " [...] kiss me on my open mouth , ready for you ."


	18. maybe, baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short! Longer update coming soon!

You're sure you look crazy as hell, venting to a dog about how much of a mess you are, but it's one of the perks of having pets. They love you unconditionally, will never judge you unless you do something really stupid like pet another dog, and can always lend an ear when you're freaking out. 

Zeus was your silent therapist during a lot of your shitty moments with men in your teenage years. 

And now you're rubbing your temple and staring at King as he lies limp in your arms, asking  _him_ why your stupid ass called N'Jadaka only to hang up like that. It no doubt let him know you were lying about Kayla, if he even believed you in the first place. You don't think he did, he's good at reading people.  

The silence is deafening, and you use the time to throw some clothes on and freshen up, lamenting at the fact that the blazing heat of the summer is going away soon. All things considered, the heat never really leaves around here but there's something about the end of summer that puts you through a funk. 

Your phone rings and you answer it quickly, not even looking at the screen to see who it is. At this point you're finding it hard to care about anything.

"Kay-" 

"What you mean, 'fuck,'?" barks N'Jadaka like you hadn't hung up on him a full 15 minutes ago. 

"Nothing," you say tiredly, fiddling with the frayed edges of your denim shorts. 

"Don't play with me, _____," he says. "Where you at?"

You go to answer but he cuts you off with an amused, "Oh right, you don't have a damn car, broke ass."

"I can't stand you!" Sometimes you wonder if he just says shit to make you laugh, except it just makes you want to dot his eye. "Come take me to CVS, and shut up. You're paying for everything I pick up today."

Scoffing, he shoots back, "Like I don't pay for everything you got, anyway."

"You don't! Everything in my savings is  _mine."_

"And everything in that checkings is  _mine."_

The two of you argue about the worth of that claim for what feels like half an hour, only stopping once your apartment door opens like it wasn't locked. It was, but he always has you doubting everything to the point you don't know what really went down or not. Honestly, it seems like some weird manipulation tactic. You  _know_ he's somehow unlocking your door without you hearing the noise of a key but every time he berates you for leaving it open. 

King does his normal thing, be ignored by N'Jadaka as he runs in circles around his feet. You watch, captivated, at the way he just stares down at your excited puppy until he sits at full attention. He  _never_ sits for you yet, too occupied with trying to see if something is in your hands when you point at him. Patiently you wait for N'Jadaka to reward King in some way for sitting, and sure enough he bends down to rub his head with both hands. 

"When you're done making my dog like you more than me, I'm ready to go."

He sucks his teeth at your childish quip, watching you clip the leash onto King's collar and grab your purse. The only thing you could muster as far as your face was a little lipgloss. You wonder if your lack of makeup is bothering N'Jadaka at all, as if you care, but you note that the absence of it is making you look more tired than usual. The bags under your eyes have been brutal the past few days and you just want the shit to pass so you can go back to feeling like you want to be outside rather than underneath the bed.

 

* * *

 

 

"You good?"

You roll your eyes a little as you look down at the package of Plan B in your hands. N'Jadaka damn near stared a hole into the side of your head as you took it, telling you flat out your 'goofy ass' needs to go ahead and start getting the shot just in case  _he_  gets caught up. Despite the fact that he made an offhand comment about wanting to knock you up, he's adamant about not wanting kids running around right now. You don't know what that means.

Other than the fact that it annoyed you, you don't know what it means.

"Yes," you say indignantly, staring at your nails. "I'm good. I'm going to start taking my pills on time. Thank you."

He shifts in the driver's seat, and when you glance over he's looking at you with both eyebrows raised. "You got a attitude?"

" _No."_

Truthfully, you're relieved, because you know a couple cousins that have been through this exact scenario it's almost scary. The  _one_ fuck after a couple missed pills; bam, pregnant. It's crazy and you'd regarded their tellings with a skeptic eye despite the fact that the women in your family are fertile as hell. Yes, you want kids, but the idea scares you a little. You're young, and you haven't done all that you want to and it's so confusing to think about you just get annoyed. 

The fact that N'Jadaka made you feel stupid for forgetting your pills doesn't help at all, and to answer his question you  _do_ have an attitude. One that he'll feel until he apologizes.

Luckily for you, your silence begins to irritate him and by the time you've hit the next intersection past the CVS, he sucks his teeth. You can already feel the asshole apology coming and you snort. 

"Aight, damn," he says on cue. "My bad, shorty, just ...get one of those old lady pillboxes if you need it."

Humming, you continue to stare out of the window, scratching King under his neck. He's getting so heavy now, and you lift one of his paws in one hand to compare the size. He may definitely be bigger than Zeus in a few months and you don't know how you feel about that. You  _definitely_ need to look up obedience classes when you get home.

After a while you quietly ask, "When do you work next?" If only to find out when he's going to disappear for a week or two. It's terrible how much you find yourself missing him during those times because that's when you're forced to come to the conclusion that his attention is literally what's keeping your mind occupied these days. 

Without it you're just looking for other ways to get it, going out more often with your girls and dolling yourself up only to get guys to look at you in the same ways that he does. You always feel gross after the drinks wear off and you're facing your own pitiful insecurities,  so maybe you'll feel better if you get a heads up. 

There's silence, only for a second before N'Jadaka reaches over to turn the radio on and you're pleasantly surprised to hear quiet smooth jazz instead of blaring west coast rappers rattling your skull. A part of you is still not sure you're recovered from that first ride you took with him.

"Did you hear me?" 

He glances over at you before nodding as if he hadn't noticed you were there. "Yeah, yeah."

"Yeah, yeah," you repeat. "What?"

"In a few days, I got some shit to do overseas. I'll be gone about.... a couple weeks."

ake whining, you look over at him with an exaggerated pout before saying, "I gotta be by myself for two whole weeks? Are you gonna give me something to remember you by?"

He scoffs, whipping into the drive-thru of an In-N-Out that you didn't even pay attention to until you hear the sounds of other people's cars rumbling. Now your stomach is, but you're too busy waiting on that answer from him. 

"I don't know," he goes, leaning back in his seat. "I'm tryin' to figure out if yo forgetful ass is gonna be blowin' up my phone cryin' about pills."

"I'm-"

"I need you to get on that, lil bit."

"I  _am,"_ you say, exasperated. Fuck. "Didn't you say you wanted to get me pregnant anyway? Why are you being so damn annoying about it, nigga, I got functional ears."

"I was speakin' in hypotheticals," he says, grinning at you. You see those fangs and you have to look away before you melt. " _Maybe_ yo cute ass might look okay with a bump but not with me!"

You suck your teeth, rolling your eyes at this conversation, because he can act facetious all he wants to. You're a little glad he's 'speaking in hypotheticals', though, because it hasn't even been six months since the two of you have been awkwardly dancing around the idea of a relationship. You're not ready for a kid, not yet anyway, and the idea of actually being pregnant starts to freak you out.

At this point, anyway. 

For now, you'll settle for a food baby, making sure to get animal fries to go with your cheeseburger.  _His_ treat.

 

* * *

 

 

The whole ride back to N'Jadaka's place you can't help but be irritated as all hell that he won't answer your serious question about why he bought two extra burgers and two extra fries. He won't let you have at least  _one_ fry, and you don't appreciate him calling you greedy when you have to remind him that you hadn't really been eating the past few days. 

He continues to ignore you all the way through the winding streets of his quiet neighborhood, and you've resigned to watching all the similar block architecture of the houses pass by in annoyed silence. King is mad at you for not giving him any of the food you got, and he sits in the backseat with a side eye so vicious you burst out laughing after you look. 

N'Jadaka turns his head to see what you're laughing at but you have to hit his arm to keep him from running straight into the black truck that's cutting off his driveway. 

It's running, and it's impossible to see inside with the deep tint of the windows, but it's already a bit obvious who it's for. You just wonder which one of N'Jadaka's nameless boys are here to pick him up. It's kind of funny that he hasn't bothered to introduce you to any of them, and whether or not he's ever going to is a question that sits in the back of your mind whenever they come around. 

N'Jadaka lays on his horn for a couple seconds before shouting out of his window for them  to pull up and you jump at the volume. 

"The window wasn't even down, dumbass," you mumble, but he hears you and gives you a look that has you hopping out of the car laughing hard as hell. It's fun to piss him off, but it's even moreso when you're talking under your breath and his strong ass ears catch it. 

Now that you're out of the car you see that his front door is open and you look back to him hesitantly from your spot on the lawn (that he's told you not to walk on). King's nosy ass is up to the door and looking inside, wagging his tail and barking while you wait for N'Jadaka to pull into his garage. He doesn't seem to be ready to start shooting, so you can only assume it's not a flat out break-in as he stomps up to the porch and moves you out of the way. 

"I  _know_ you didn't just come in  _my_  damn house," is his first strong ass sentence as the two of you enter, and it echoes loudly off the walls.

Luckily for you, a pleasant voice returns the call as his even more pleasant person steps from out of the kitchen. 

"You kept us wait- _hello,"_  says T'Challa, switching up his tone and body language as he steps closer to greet you. You try not to get starstruck again, especially because N'Jadaka is a bitch when it comes to you being anywhere near the man, but you grin all the same. 

"Hi again," you say, trying to make it not obvious how you're trying to escape with your rather homely appearance today. More importantly, you aren't wearing makeup or sufficient clothing to hide the physical marks of your kidnapping. The bruising on your eye can be jarring when you don't go in with concealer, and your sunglasses have been off.

T'Challa regards your face with concern, eyebrows furrowing before throwing a look behind you that screams a challenge. You're nearly run over when N'Jadaka comes up to throw one right back, and you stumble into T'Challa who steadies you with one arm. 

"Hey," you start, vainly attempting to push N'Jadaka backwards before he starts an entire royal rumble in his living room. You  _really_ cannot understand this rivalry, but you can't ask about his past without getting death stares. "Stop!"

But then you have to turn to T'Challa, meekly trying to tell him what really happened to you because it's painfully obvious he's assumed the worst just like your friends did. The fact that T'Challa seems to think that N'Jadaka is even capable of beating you up worries you considerably. It makes you wonder how he's acted towards women when he's been in that dark place in his mind.

With one final shove he steps off, muttering something under his breath angrily. You sigh long and hard, your nerves all over the place as you turn back to T'Challa with a nervous smile. You have no idea why you're so rattled, or why your hands are shaking, but  a part of you assumes it's from the lack of time to process what'd happened to you.  Now that you've been forced to confront it again you just want to lose it. 

But you can't, because a beautiful king is looking at you with all kinds of concern in his eyes and you don't want to derail his original reasoning for technically breaking in. Seems like it runs in the family. 

"Um," you start, trying to excuse yourself. "I'm-It's nice to see you again, T'Challa. Tell Shuri I said 'hi'!"

You're positive the other bag of food was for her, and since you don't hear her inside you can only assume she's in the truck wasting gas outside. Knowing her, it's to keep the A/C running, and this makes you laugh on your way up the stairs.

King doesn't follow you up, but N'Jadaka does, stomping his heavy-footed ass behind you and you have scurry forward to keep from being run over. You're expecting some lame lecture about getting familiar with T'Challa but instead he lets you know what's going on with no nonsense.

"Look," he goes, watching you sit at the foot of his bed. "I'm out, when you leave lock my shit. If you stay, put the alarm on. And  _lock my shit."_

"One day you'll talk to me like an adult, right?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "I'm not gonna leave your shit unlocked. And i'm not staying in this house I'm going home. It's freaky in here by myself at night."

He chuckles at you before continuing on. "Aight. Well I got you on the car, just don't get nothin' ugly."

"Modest and practical isn't ugly."

"Anyway-"

"Anyway," you repeat, snickering. "Don't keep them waiting, go do your important business in Wakanda or whatever. That's where you're going, right."

He nods flippantly, face broadcasting nothing but irritation as he does so and you wonder out loud why he catches such an attitude at everything his cousin does and says. You don't expect an answer but he surprises you by opening his mouth before tossing you an envelope. It's the results you wanted to clear your mind. 

"You so damn nosy," he goes, watching you open.

"You gonna give my nosy ass some answers when you get back?"

"Maybe."

There's a brief moment of silence as you read over the paper with a sigh of relief, and when you look back up N'Jadaka is right in front of you. The kiss he places to your lips is so quick it can barely be considered one and when you lean forward for more he mushes you, laughing as you try to find something to throw at him. By the time you do he's long gone, but you make sure to call him a bitch out the window as you watch him and T'Challa get into that black truck. Faintly, you can hear Shuri laughing at him from inside it in that funny way where it sounds like she's just saying  _Ha-ha._

At least someone appreciates your humor.


	19. bicth

Your first few days without him go about as smoothly as you hoped, in that they don't amount to anything but wishing he was in your apartment to save you from that late-night pining you've been doing since he first ruined you. He has you so fucked up it's not even funny.

You'd went home nearly immediately after he'd left, lazing around on his bed until you heard one too many noises for your liking. The first couple times was just King getting into shit he wasn't supposed to, but those next few had you locking up and running to your Uber. And what you took, you hope he won't miss if he happens to come back before 2 weeks is up, but you were already wearing it when you left.

Just like that, you'd stolen your first hoodie. It's black, with an image of Africa on the front and you assume it's one of his favorites based on how often he wears it and how deep the scent of his cologne has seeped into the fibers.

It's a little after noon when you finally look at the top of your phone, groaning because you've been up since 6. You'd taken a shower, deluded yourself into making your hair look nice before collapsing back into bed and staring at the tv. It hasn't been that long since you stopped working  but you feel restless all the same.

There's shit to be done, though, and you know it but the idea of getting up and going to look at cars seems like so much effort you just get mad all over again at the loss of yours at N'Jadaka's hand. He'd shown you a photo, and your poor baby was so ruined the insurance company didn't give you any trouble for once. Nearly everything in your trunk ended up spread all over the street or crushed inside and he's just lucky you'd cleaned out your car recently or else you'd be in jail for attempted murder.

The idea of moving goes straight out of the window until your cell phone buzzes and interrupts your 100th listen of  _Thank u, Next._

You wish you could be thankful for your ex.

Kayla laughs at you when you tell her what you were doing, and you have to start laughing yourself once you look at the text that gets your phone vibrating against your ear.

_> This nigga got a fuckin starbucks and shit over here_

_> I can't stand his ass_

_> What u doin_

Even though it's only words you read it in his voice with all the disdain dripping off it at the fact that Wakanda's allowed the crushing fist of coffee capitalism into it's borders. He's such a geek but you only got a lecture when you called him one once. That, and it's hilarious how he pretends he doesn't miss you when you're gone.

>  **I'm just laying here. At least all the baristas will be black lol...drink a caramel macchiato for me**

"I'm sorry," you finally say, wiping a tear from your eye. "What'd you say?"

Kayla repeats herself, but you miss it again on account of the harsh knocking on your apartment door. King starts to bark, jolted out of his puppy nap, and you peel yourself out of bed to go answer it with nothing on but a hoodie and underwear on.

"Open the door!" Kayla shouts, her voice echoing through the speaker as you let her in. Only  _she_  does things like calling when she's outside your door.

She immediately juts her lip out and forces your head to her chest, patting you on the back like this is an episode of Iyanla Fix My Life and you have to knee her away from you with a smile.

"Jesus," she goes, staring at you in the light coming from your patio doors. "You look...."

"Thank you," you mumble flippantly, locking the door. "Don't worry, I know what foundation is, sis."

She's still just staring at your black eye with her mouth open, eyes then traveling down to the bruises on your neck and the multiple spots all over your legs from getting banged up during your kidnapping. Finally, she gets to the homemade stitches on your thigh and hits you so hard on the arm you wince.

"Bitch, if you don't-"

"I'm calling Sydney," she suddenly says, unlocking her phone. "I don't believe you."

You're confused, frowning at her facial expression. "What?"

"You expect me to believe he ain't do this to you? Nah. He 'saved you,' yeah right."

And at this you just take her phone, rolling your eyes because your besties picked the best time to be just that. Sometimes it's annoying as all hell when people care about you. You love your girls, you do, but damn is it hard to explain what the complicated shit you have going on with N'Jadaka is. Usually, Sydney is the slowest to pop off and it's often better to relay iffy news to  _her_ first before trying to get it to Kayla. That's just the method you've adopted over the years.

Tired, you just shake your head as she stares at you from her spot near the stove. "Listen, Kay, I've kind of been going through it so if you don't mind  _not_ being my mama for once I'd really appreciate it."

She just looks at you.

"I know my last boyfriend probably fucked me up more than I thought and that's why I'm falling the hell apart right now but I'm gonna need you to think more of me then allowing a man to beat me the fuck up just because he has good stroke game, damn."

"Well," she starts, raising a finger like she's in church. "Most abused women don't necessarily  _allow-"_

"Kayla! Dammit!" you shout, cutting her off by throwing one of King's nearby toys at her. Like clockwork he dives at it, hopping up in her lap and going crazy as he tries to rip it apart. It's some rubber bone that squeaks and drives you up the damn wall. Every time you try and toss it he hears it squeaking and ruins your plans.

Watching in silent amusement you stand with your arms folded, smiling slightly at the way Kayla is struggling to get King off her without damaging her outfit or him. No one told her to get stiletto nails when she could've just gone coffin, like you. But now that you've noticed her nails, you look at the rest of her outfit. She's got on a pair of cute overalls and a simple white tee shirt underneath with a million pairs of jewelry and her hair slicked back to perfection into a high ponytail.

You want to say she's going somewhere but honestly you haven't done much of anything lately so she could just be dressed to go to the grocery store.

Speaking of which.

Kayla finally gets King off her by hurling his toy into your bedroom and his claws slide against the floor as he chases it. You shake your head.

"He's gonna bring it back and make you throw it again," you say as he does just that. "I signed him up for this obedience class where I drop him off and come back a few hours later."

"Why?" Kayla asks, tossing the toy again.

"Because I'm tired and he's basically a mean-ass baby because N- Erik is rubbing off on him and I can't leave him here by himself when I go take care of stuff. My kitchen has a bag of rice and a six pack of coke in it, Kayla."

She nods, going 'mm,' as she gets to her feet. "You do look like you struggling."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, babe."

 

* * *

 

 

>  _what you wearin'? I can't even get a pic?_

_> mean ass_

You conclude rather quickly that N'Jadaka being away from you is starting to make him bored and restless and a part of that kind of inflates your ego a little bit. He's been texting you every hour, and each random statement you read makes you laugh so much you can barely reply.

But still, this time away will probably be good for you considering you've become such a mess that you aren't sure you're ready to see him yet. Even though he was being a facetious asshole when he wondered where 'that baddie on the porch' went to, you're starting to wonder the same thing. The effort, the perfect aloofness your friends taught you to have around men, not having the expression of a kicked puppy, it all seems so foreign to you now and it kind of scares you. Part of you thinks you should go see a therapist or something but another part of you wonders if it'll just give your parents red alerts.

They'd just have fits if they found out you were kidnapped not even a full week ago.

Sighing hard you blow out the smoke from the blunt Kayla said would be the start of your 'recovery.' You've been sitting on her patio at her house for the past couple hours, talking and drinking despite the fact that you were supposed to be grocery shopping. She'd slid you a big chunk of her 'good shit' as she called it, reminding you why you jokingly say she's your favorite over Sydney.

Sydney would've just slid you the number to her weed man and left it at that.

There's not much of a backyard at Kayla's place, just a tall grey fence around a lemon tree and enough space for a trampoline, but it's more than you've ever had on your own so that's that on that. The breeze is rustling all of the leaves in the tree and it smells like citrus, but Kayla always complains about the lemons that fall and rot in her grass. It's such a Californian thing to complain about, you think, but you enjoy it whenever you come over. King's enjoying it too, zipping around the yard like a bat out of hell.

Below you, your cell phone buzzes again to remind you that you have an unread message, and you take another pull as you unlock. That comfortable ass haze that always wraps its arms around you because you hardly ever smoke has you completely unwilling to physically type a reply. Instead you hit call before you really notice that you've done it, but it's too late and you already see your face looking back at you.

The last time you facetimed N'Jadaka he basically wanted you to be his personal camgirl.

He picks up just as you exhale and you offer a relaxed smile that he calls you goofy for.

"Hi," you say, looking for the ashtray. "I have on a hoodie, thank you for asking."

"That's it?"

You nod, very close to laughing for some reason, before showing off your legs and bare feet. All you had it in you was to slip on some flip flops and an ankle bracelet that makes you feel like you could possibly look cute today.

Behind you, Kayla's clattering shit together in her kitchen and she yells at you, wondering if you want barbecue wings from the raggedy looking joint a few blocks away. The stained menu is always somewhere in her house and she refuses to do anything but order delivery from them but you had to admit; if a place looks like you'd die in the parking lot their food is probably fire.

"Is that mine?" N'Jadaka asks, reminding you that you are in fact on facetime with him with his flippant tone. "You been at my house today?"

"No," you admit, setting the phone up against the ashtray so you don't have to hold it. "I left like an hour after you did. "

"Chicken shit."

"Sure am."

A few silent moments pass as the two of you just look at each other, and you wonder what time it is in Wakanda because he's clearly lying in bed. He'd better be alone in that bed but your irrational side has you wondering why the phone is so close to his face.

Luckily, he voices his irrationality first.

"Where you at?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

You shrug, leaning against the armrest of the chair. "I'm not at home so you're not gettin' a show."

"That ain't what I asked you."

"Aw," you tease, closing your eyes. "You think that low of me? I'm offended. Wounded, even."

He sucks his teeth, chastising your overly sweet customer service voice before looking away from you and at what you presume to be a television.

"And I'm not you," you add opening your eyes again. This is weird, to you, to have such a random and relaxed convo thousands of miles apart like this. It's making you miss him more and you regret calling.

"What am I, lil bit." He pauses. "Hm?"

"Bad," you answer, laughing a little into your arm as his eyebrows jump upwards. "I was a daisy fresh girl until you came and ruined me... No that's not true. I was already fuckin' ruined before I met you. But that's men, baby!"

King comes zipping past before N'Jadaka can say anything , and he runs right into the patio door. The whole thing rattles violently and he yelps like someone kicked him before staggering over to you with his tail between his legs.

Kayla's laughing at him when you scoop him up, and you feel like the parent of a bad little kid that comes crying over to you once they hurt themselves when you've spent all day telling them to sit down somewhere. N'Jadaka regards your cooing to King with a roll of his eyes and snide comments about you babying him because it's obvious puppies should be treated like convicts.

And when you put him down, your long-distance lover has something to say.

"So you not gon' tell me where you are?" he goes, staring straight at you in a way that's like he's actually in front of you. "Cuz it look like you at some nigga's house."

"Shut up," you say, chuckling through another cloud of smoke. "I think you're deflecting, trying to be slick. I think you got some chick in bed with you."

You're joking, in all honesty, but you watch him chuckle at you and prove you wrong all the same. The glimpse of the room is short and sweet, but the massive floor to ceiling window catches your eye immediately. There were a million lights outside, probably buildings, and everything inside the bedroom is sleek and sophisticated looking with very traditional design elements. You can't say it's  _African esque_ because that's too generic and a huge generalization, but you also don't know enough about Wakanda to peg it as such either.

Regardless, it's gorgeous, and you're glad you got a short glimpse at a place you'll probably never see in your lifetime.

After thanking him for proving the girl he's hiding is under his bed rather than ontop he laughs at you, flashing all white teeth.

"Okay," he goes. "Then tell that nigga you got on the other side of that patio that I got guns."

"Aye, you hear that!" you call, looking to an invisible point near the fence. "He got these guns!"

You try and say more but you honest-to-god can't, and you collapse into the biggest laughing fit you think you've had in a couple years. The fact that the bit kept going for even two seconds is so funny to you and what's even funnier is that he went along with it. It's weird that this exchange is 100 percent pleasant, and that's what you want them all to be from this point on but you know that's impossible. His personality with your personality means the two of you are bound to clash now and again, especially with how you've been as of late.

But that worry can wait until after you've gotten yourself together.

Coming down from your laugh-high, you drop your voice to a low hum, ghost of a smile still on your lips. "Are you coming back after 2 weeks? Or is whatever you're doing gonna take longer?"

He shrugs. "Maybe before 2 weeks. Maybe longer, shit, I don't know. The way this nigga run things is dumb. He act like an old ass man. Can't do shit without taking forever."

"Hm."

"You miss me or somethin'?"

"No," you lie, brushing your twists behind your back. "I need you to take my hair down for me. I don't feel like doing it. Do you miss me?"

"Nah."

You stick your middle finger up and he laughs, saying that he'll call you back tomorrow because he's 'jet lagged as fuck.' You're not expecting him to say 'love you' or any shit like that, far from it. But you don't expect the lazy goodnight punctuated by your favorite nickname of his: babygirl. You almost want to say that it's not night where you are but he's already gone by the time you think to do it.

Now that it's silent (save for Kayla answering the door) you sit and stare at your cellphone screen and it's cracked surface with a tired sigh. N'Jadaka being so far away eliminates your favorite distraction, and you hate to sort of think of him that way but it's true. It's true that you need constant reminders that there's other things outside of anxiety and fear of the unknown, and it's true that you're absolutely out of your mind with it from your wild past few days, but you feel compelled to try and pull yourself back down to earth.

It's almost agonizing when you have nothing to keep your mind busy, terrifying to even be alone with your own thoughts when that constant nagging fear of seemingly nothing is pulling at you.  _You're hungry - You almost died ; You need to find that expensive gold chain N'Jadaka had on King - You almost died. You should go look for that new car - You will die. Fear City, 24/7._

You pick your cell up after your last drag, deciding to open Instagram despite it being nothing more than another source of anxiety to you lately. There's the run of the mill stuff, guys doing their normal heart eye spiels under your selfies from a week ago because it's the last time you actually felt cute, and an influx of notifications that are basically threats.

The most recent DM request is from a page with no photo or posts of any kind and all it says is ' _He don't want u, bitch.'_

And you have to laugh because you're really too high to even comprehend it, showing it to Kayla once she comes out with a plate.

"Food's here," she goes before peering down. "What?"

"Erik has stans apparently," you say, chuckling. "And now I have haters."

"Or one hater," she says, pointing as you scroll through. "All 3 of these private profiles have similar usernames and all the messages look the same. Syd had to deal with this shit when she was datin' that Soundcloud rapper with the fucked up septum piercing. It's always one weird ass chick with nothing to do, mad because-"

"Go to that B chick's page," you suddenly say, her name having popped into your head the second you saw the message. You can't even find her on your explore page and it makes you laugh because that overrated bitch with the iffy rap flow had the audacity to block you despite the fact you've never interacted with her online in any facet.

Kayla shows you her recent post, where she's in some lame Fashion Nova dress in the mirror and you have to snort.

_BaddestBee_. Isn't it funny when a nigga act like he too good for you all of a sudden but the bitch he with is such a downgrade you can't even be that mad._   _Like I just feel bad like I need to donate or somethin_

"What the fuck does that mean?" Kayla goes, mouth full of food. "She leaking her new song?"

"It means I'm gonna stab that disrespectful bitch in the eye if she doesn't stop vague-posting about me," you say, voice dripping with irritation. "She's not A-list enough to have 18 bodyguards to keep me from kickin' her silicon ass."

Kayla suddenly hugs you with one arm as you talk shit about making  _her_ have to need donations for a hospital bill gofundme if she keeps talking, the other keeping her plate from King's reach. "Yes! I liked her last album but I'll bail you out of jail if you need me to."

"No, I'm gonna make Erik do it, save your money."

 

* * *

 

 

The two of you don't facetime again until another four days pass, having only communicated through texting and a couple late-night calls where he pretended not to notice the time zone difference and wanted to talk at damn near 3 in the morning.

When you answer you've just finished pulling all your twists back into a high ponytail and he sees you right as you go to put your arms down. Its all in his facial expression, what he's probably thinking, but you don't need to know that you look good in the black sports bra he's currently ogling you in because you already know.

"Move that pillow out the way," he says, peering lower in the frame as if that'll make it easier for him to see what you're wearing on your lower half.

You ignore him completely, folding your arms and saying with conviction, "Erik, we gotta talk."

His eyebrows jump and he looks a little taken aback that you've used his 'other' name but you're serious about what you have to say.

"Erik," he repeats, still looking at you, surprised. "Who-"

"Do you follow that B bitch on Instagram?" you ask, cutting him off. "Because if you do I need you to tell her big-headed ass to keep my name out of her mouth."

He just goes, "Damn," and starts laughing at you but you've never been more irritated in your life. When your ex cheated, you were at the very least able to retaliate and nearly get charged with arson, but there was closure. There was a sense of him  _knowing_ how fucked up he had you when he did what he did but this? She blocked you, sends her petty stans after you and according to your girls is vague posting about you every day. There's nothing more petty, you think, than to essentially hide behind a glass wall and talk shit knowing the other person can't do anything but watch you do so.

And sure, you could ignore her, but you aren't in the headspace to want to do anything but knock her head loose after she had the audacity to have  _your_ dog all on her stories and social media.  _Your_ dog. Not N'Jadaka's, yours, and you're thinking about the fact he got King's ears cropped all over again.

You just put your head in your hands, groaning about the headache you feel coming on because you forgot to eat today. It's nearing midnight for you so you have to assume it's early morning in Wakanda, but N'Jadaka's still in bed either way. The curtains must be drawn tight because the room is dark and when you ask he just nods at you.

"Chill out," he finally says, still kind of laughing at you. "You think about shit too much. It's not that deep."

You scoff. "It's 'not that deep'? I didn't say it was! I'm just sick of her running her damn mouth; I'm allowed to be."

"You right."

"I know i'm right. And I know she's texting you because your bitch ass won't tell her not to-"

"That's yo second time callin' me a bitch," he says, disappearing out of frame for a second. "I got you when I get back."

You shrug even though he can't see you. "Come get me then."

When he reappears you've fully moved the pillow from your lap, folding your arms and trying to pretend that you don't realize how you look in those high waistband underwear that were entirely too expensive for what they're worth. Kayla decided to 'school' you last night in that in your perfect quest for becoming that Baddie on the Porch again is to stop acting like you care how men look at you. To wear shit for you, and you only because  _you_  know how bad you are rather than waiting for the validation of someone else to tell you the same.

Then you got your nails done.

N'Jadaka seems stuck, just staring at your body through the phone with an almost  _groan_ of your name under his breath that you definitely hear and you decide then that this was a mistake. It's fucked up because you just want to be there, or for him to be here, and what started as you calling to complain ended up as you wanting your back broken but it's too soon. Fuck national borders and all the oceans in between; you've never missed the physical presence of anyone more and talking to him literally has made it worse.

Exhaling sharply you pick your phone up and say, "Tell your ex-fuckbuddy to keep my name out of her mouth. Goodnight!"

"W-"

And you hang up, tossing your phone to the other side of the bed and collapsing into the pillows with absolutely no desire to go to sleep. You've done almost everything that you can think of as far as 'self-care;' you've cleaned your apartment and bought new candles and used N'Jadaka's 'gift' to buy a slightly used and sparkly black jeep from some lot your Dad's friend owns. He got you a good deal and didn't spend anywhere close to the limit N'Jadaka gave you, and you're a little annoyed that his bougie ass even expected you to go to a luxury dealer in the first place.

Your phone buzzes.

>  _Okay._

_**> Okay?? Okay what?? Didn't I tell you goodnight??** _

>  _You wanna act up bc I ain't there but okay. I got you when I get back._

You decide to bite back and take the obvious bait, smiling to yourself as you type a quick response. Your nails are a little longer this time around and you aren't used to them yet, the quick message taking a few seconds longer and if it weren't for spellcheck you'd be out of luck.

>  ** _???_**

>  _Idk about 2 weeks. I might be back before then._

>  _Or after, shit I might be back tonight you look fine as hell_

You contemplate calling him back but your phone buzzes one last time before you're able.

> _Nevermind... i'mma let you sit there and think about this shit._

You decide to bite, asking him what he's talking about before you get a near-instant notification that's nothing but a photo and probably the first dick pic you've ever gotten that didn't make you want to puke. Instead, you just scream, spooking King and probably that old lady that lives next door.

Bitch.

 

* * *

 

 

And that pic is still on your mind when you jolt awake the next morning having felt like you were falling off of the bed in your dream. The blackout curtains have the room dark, just like you like it, and it makes the slow crawl toward the bathroom more palatable.

You stare at yourself in the mirror after getting as clean as you can before running up your water bill. You don't know where you promised your girls you were taking them today, but the words 'brunch' and 'tea' and 'bougie place downtown' were exchanged. It's your special 'girls day' , on this special Sunday morning, and all it does is remind you that you once again haven't gone to church with your parents.

But lord is that an ordeal at her old school Southern Baptist chapel. Sometimes you used to wonder if you were going to hell solely because of how much you laughed and made fun of the people in the congregation. The old women and their hats, the sly digs they used to make at each other via their turned up noses and pursed lips, and the complete fiasco that is the unorganized choir section. There's vivid memories you have from a couple years back where a full on brawl nearly started when Sister Charlene came in too early on Miss Lorraine's solo during her off-key rendition of  _Take Me To The King._

Slathering yourself with lotion, you wonder if N'Jadaka can relate to any black church-isms. He still hasn't told you about himself as far as his past, and it's clearly a sore spot, but you always find yourself thinking about his mother or his father or who they could be. For him to be so closed into himself emotionally, and able to do so many terrible things, you think that they sadly weren't around.

Something tells you he's been by himself for a long time.

He calls you as you're getting dressed and you put him on speakerphone as you stare at your 'new' high-waisted jeans in the mirror. They're certified vintage, 1994 and expensive, but it's the stiff denim that you like. That, and it kind of hides your butt (plus all bruises). It's a habit leftover from your church days to always wear clothes that hid your behind which left out anything that wasn't babydoll dresses and massive pants. That damn Deacon always looked at you anyways.

There's the unmistakable sound of wind blowing out your speakers from the other line and you frown a bit to yourself as you zip up.

"What are you doing?"

"Mindin' my damn business," is his curt reply, all evidence of the noise disappearing with one loud click. "Listen.."

You mumble a worried, "Uh oh," under your breath as you pull out your makeup bag. From your experience, hearing 'listen' from a man in any facet never ends well. All you've ever heard is a bunch of listen baby this or listen baby that.

"I gotta do some shit off-grid," he says, sounding irritated.

"What's that mean?"

"It  _means,_ you shouldn't have been so damn dry on facetime. Sent a pic or some shit. Popped at least  _one_ titty out or somethin'."

Scowling into the mirror you repeat your question and he sucks his teeth like what he said actually made sense. Men are completely incapable of  _not_ speaking in riddles.

"Hello?"

"It MEANS my phone is off until I'm done." And you know he held back some comment about you being goofy or deaf. "I don't know when I'm comin' back."

Your immediate reaction is to let that irrational part of your brain assume he's going to be gone for a year or something but he quells your fear in his gentlemanly way:

"Probably an extra week, goofy ass, I can already tell you over there about to have a heart attack."

-

It'd be funny if he didn't end up being 'Off-Grid' for 3 months.

Bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absence makes the heart grow fonder


	20. bad gal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a typo in here but for the life of me I can't remember which part and it's 2 in the morning so i REALLY dont feel like rereading this long ass chapter. but  
>  enjoy!

_(we love a bad at writing smut sishtar)_

_-_

 

3 months.

3 damn months he's away from you. 3 months you're left exposed, forced to actually sit back and think about the person you want to become and the person you were before your ex. Devon, Devon, Devon, it all boiled down to him and how he'd ruined you and you're sure the therapist felt your emotional block burst when she'd asked you about any previous relationships.

And at first you wanted to be angry, you really did. The week turned into another, and while you began to get antsy you paid the time no mind because he'd said another week or so past the initial 2. But that turned into 3 weeks which became a month and you just got mad. Mad because you assumed he just lied to you to be petty and then mad at yourself for not worrying about him. Anything could have happened, and it took a lot of willpower to not succumb to those anxious thoughts creeping into the back of your mind whenever you had a quiet moment to yourself.

Sleeping got hard with so much worry in your stomach, but that's what caffeine is for. Weekends? The best, because you found every possible reason to be in a club with your girls acting like the drunk college chicks you never got to be on account of your parents' expectations. They said you were yourself again, that you were smiling and glowing and pretty in the way that they knew you were. Not necessarily in the physical sense of the word but in your vibe.

But honestly you just got good at pretending, because once you got home the worry came back and you were beginning to entertain the thought that he may not come back.

It's been 3 months and four days and you're eating a salad in some trendy outdoor cafe' you'd seen on an aimless walk around midtown with King. You're glad the obedience training took hold and you got to have an influence over his bad ass again because he acts like the perfect dog when you're in public. It's something you always worry about because he's a pit--a big one at that. Still a puppy and he's damn near the size of Zeus, with his cropped ears and dark eyes and strong stature when he's standing up. He looks like a damn panther and isn't that just hilarious?

Currently he has his heavy head on your lap, begging for table scraps even though you keep trying to make it clear that what you're eating is literally a bowl of tasteless grass with some radishes and sweet vinaigrette. It sucks, and you much rather your homemade ones; green or red leaf lettuce, boiled eggs, croutons, cheese, some kind of meat, four different types of vegetables and a topping of homestyle ranch. 'Health' be damned; life is short and you're hungry.

"King," you finally sigh, nudging him off you. "Get off me, greedy ass, I just gave you like 8 treats in the car."

He licks his chops like he has an attitude before turning his attention to the person scraping their chair across the ground. You don't pay them any mind, slightly tugging King's leash so he doesn't try and go any closer to anyone and scare them. 

"I'm sorry," you say absentmindedly, not even looking up from your food. 

A voice answers back, and it's one you never thought you'd hear ever again.

"____?" 

Still chewing, you look over to your absolute bitch of an ex, not exactly liking his impressed tone of voice as he says your name again to confirm. Out of all the places you see him here, and that just cements the fact that you need to postmate everything rather than go outside anymore. The 'you' that was going through it a few months ago probably would've made any excuse to leave, but the 'you' of today is too irritated about being alone that you just want to fight him. 

Devon Sanders isn't really all that cute now that you look at him again, all this time later. If anything he seems sleazy and arrogant, with eyes that seem to be undressing you the longer he looks you up and down. You just want to put this recycled plastic fork right in his eye.

"Damn, girl," he goes, finally sitting down. "You look good."

"Do I?" you respond, shrugging at your food. You cannot look him in the eye, you swear you'll do something to go to jail. "Thank you."

Despite the fact your entire body is screaming that you're not here to converse, he keeps trying to have this awkward small talk with a bunch of tiny questions that aren't hiding his true intentions. Now that he's run into you again, you  _know_ his manipulative ass is going to try and lure you back for a hookup. It's nearly Halloween, too, funny how the demons and shit are reappearing.

You take a sip of your water, finally looking over at Devon and his crooked smile. He looks different, like he got veneers, and they're entirely too big for his face to the point it looks like he has a set of nice horse teeth in his jaws. 

"What you been up to? I ain't seen you in a fat minute."

You just look at him, slowly running your tongue over your teeth to make sure there's no kale stuck in them, wondering how long you'd be gone if you told King to go for it. 

He only chuckles, sticking both hands up toward you in surrender. "Aight, baby, my bad. I forgot."

"You forgot," you repeat, pursing your lips. 

"Forgot how mean you were. You always used to have a attitude," and he laughs, apparently not realizing how close you are to catching a felony.

"Don't act like you don't know why," you say, standing up. "Anyways."

You're preparing to leave when he stands up to stop you, putting a hand on your forearm that you make  _sure_ to pull away. He thinks he's so good at this, and maybe he is considering how many girls he managed to pull despite acting like a clown, but you really aren't about to get suckered into having a 'drink' with him. That's how all dudes like him work, you think.

Devon's looking at your butt as you turn to leave again, and you're quick to remind him with a quick pat on King's neck that you have a very large pit bull with you. Just like with Zeus, you've gotten him used to a very specific slight pinch on the scruff of his neck that gets him to growl at whoever you want. It's what stood between you and dangerous encounters with men in the dark sometimes.

He acts like he hasn't noticed King until now, visibly flinching even though your overgrown puppy ignores him the second you move your hand back to his leash. When his eyes flick back to yours his lips part like he wants to say something else but you shut him down with one sentence.

"I have a boyf-man, thank you."

Nailed it.

You just hope you still do, and that he isn't currently buried in a nice funeral plot in Wakanda. You have a hard time believing that T'Challa wouldn't have the decency to call you and tell you if something happened to N'Jadaka but what if something happened to  _him_ as well? And there your mind goes, back to that place again and you just wish that fine asshole would hurry back to you so the noise in your brain can stop. 

Devon tries to say something about you staying a little longer, that he'll even buy you a smoothie (6 dollars) but you pay him no mind because you just want to be at home cooking actual food with no health benefits. 

"Oh, it's like that?" he calls out to you as you toss your trash in the recycling bin. "Dammnnnn, _____."

Lord above you just wanted to act an entire fool, but you keep moving because your therapist visits couldn't have been for nothing. They were expensive, and boring, but ultimately you think they were necessary. You tell it to King when you're back in the car, smiling over at him with a peaceful serenity in your eyes.

"I didn't fuck that two-faced, cheating, horse-mouthed, dishonest ass bitch with a weak stroke game up. And I am a better person for it."

 

* * *

 

 

There's nothing more soothing on earth than listening to Sade while you cook, you think. Just the sounds of her voice carrying through your fully decorated and cozy apartment as chicken sizzles in a pan is enough to lift your spirits. Especially since said chicken will be going onto an improved salad that you immediately shopped for after dropping King off.

He'd greeted you with a gruff bark right before stepping in his food bowl and sending kibble all over the floor. 

He definitely should be at N'Jadaka's house now that he's so big. Thinking of his house has you a little sad again; you checked on it every now and again to make sure no one broke in or vandalized anything, and you made sure to routinely cycle the lights on and off to fool potential burglars into thinking someone was always home.

You flip the chicken strips around in the pan, nudging King away from you with your foot every time he gets too close. He really doesn't belong in your kitchen at all considering how small it is in comparison to the rest of your apartment, and he's definitely knocked enough things off the countertops for you to ban him permanently. 

Singing along to the music you do a dramatic spin toward the sink to drain the oil from the pan and just as you do you see a figure standing in your kitchen. Your first instinct is to scream, dropping the pan into the sink (the chicken stays intact thankfully) and back away into the corner with your heart in your chest. 

"FUCK!"

"Wassup to you too,"  _he_ says, dropping a duffel bag in the middle of the floor and slamming the door shut. He saunters over to you with that walk of his that always has you stuck, but he doesn't have time to open his mouth and say anything smart because you're already wrapped around him. 

King is barking and turning in circles and your arms are around N'Jadaka's neck with your legs gripping his waist so hard it's hurting you. You're so mad at him you could spit but at the same time you know his hands were probably tied with whatever was so important he'd have to leave in the first place. 

He's laughing at your behavior, that you obviously missed him, teasing you with a hard smack on your backside in the athletic shorts you have on. He does it again, and again, finally just gripping each cheek so hard you pull away to express your discomfort.

"Ow!" you yelp, trying to get down. "Why are you abusing me?"

"'Cuz I missed this fat ass."

"But not me," you say wryly, pushing away from him. Your damn heart is beating a million miles and your hands are shaking; it's embarrassing to you but you find yourself smiling all the same. You ask where he's been so long, and that he has you fucked up with the disappearing act, but he only tells you he and T'Challa had some 'shit to take care of' concerning rogue groups trying to cause trouble in the newly-opened Wakanda. He makes an offhand comment about him knowing how people like that think more than anybody else, and it's why he got dragged along but you don't care.

You're just glad he's back.

His eyes on you are beginning to embarrass you so you turn to try and rescue your protein out of the kitchen sink and transfer  them to a plate. It's hard to ignore him though, it's like his gaze is burning a hole in the side of your head, but you know more than anything he's staring at your butt in these shorts. You're proven right when he reaches over and pinches you right on the thigh, tugging on your shirt when you swat his hands away from you. 

"Aye," you go, hip-checking him. "Stop! I'm hungry!"

He sucks his teeth, roughly turning you around to face him with both hands planted firmly on your hips. He looks ravenous, like a starved man that hasn't had a meal in a few months and you suppose that it's true. There's always that fear that he strayed while he was away but you hope that he'd respect you enough not to. And not in that ' _you're a better fuck so why would I do that'_ type way.

Telling you that he's 'hungry' too, he gives you no time to react before you're off the ground and being carried to your bedroom. He deposits you at the foot of the bed roughly, and several decorative pillows go flying off and onto the floor. Behind him, King is trying to get into the room too, barking and standing up on his hind legs to greet N'Jadaka and you clear your throat loudly to tell your intruder off.

"You'd better say hi to my dog," you command, pointing. "He's gonna be staying with you sometimes."

N'Jadaka raises an eyebrow at you before roughly mushing King's face in both hands. His tail wags so hard you can barely see it; he missed his mean ass too it seems. 

"Why he gotta stay with me?" 

"Because he's big as hell," you reply, watching him shut the door. "I'm scared every time he barks that I'm gonna get kicked out. You have a backyard, at least."

N'Jadaka snorts, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto the chair in front of your vanity mirror. King is scratching on the door from the hallway, whining. "Nobody told you to get a one bedroom. This place got apartments with double this square footage."

You shrug, smirking when you say, "The rent was too high."

"I got you."

"That's a waste of money."

He doesn't respond, just staring at you in the middle of your bedroom looking like  _himself_ all tall and thick muscles and you are going crazy. He's wearing a black shirt that's hugging his form in all the right places and camo pants; his dirty combat boots tracking dirt onto your shiny floor. You lift a leg out at him as he starts to move toward you, smiling because your stomach is roaring and it's ruining the mood.

"Why don't you go take a shower?" you ask, snorting. Your foot is planted firmly on his stomach at this point. 

"What you tryin' to say?"

"That i'm hungry and if I don't eat now I'm gonna get a headache and you know what headaches mean.."

He just shakes his head at you, forcing you to sigh and add, "They mean all those months of you missin' my 'fat ass' is gonna end up with cuddling and that's it."

N'Jadaka rolls his eyes as he crosses the floor to your bathroom, flipping the switch on with one finger. You watch him curiously, confused as to why he wears boots that take so much effort to take off. Half the time you don't even bother with them on your Docs, wearing them untied for ease of use.

He's down to his camo pants when you have to go help him figure out your shower, and the second you switch it on he stops you from leaving the bathroom. All it takes is one strong hand gripping your head and neck to make you forget about your salad. You  _hate_ the way he kisses, because he's too good at it and he has no business having such soft lips. He kisses you like he's missed you and it's different than every other time that he's done it before now because he will  _not_ let you go. Nothing about his grip is especially harsh or dominating but it's enough of a hold to keep you from moving but it's fine because you don't want to. 

That is, until you realize your water is just running and no one has time for high ass water bills. 

Finally, you come up for air, licking your lips as he starts moving down your jawline and down to your neck--a dangerous game. 

"Wait," you sigh, starting to get weak in the knees. "Wait, wait, wait!"

He sucks his teeth, pushing you away from him with an irritated sigh. "You act like I ain't been gone for 3 months. You been fuckin' some other-"

"No, fool," you snap, pushing him back. "I've been getting used to not being touched, thank you. I'm not a cat in heat, I can wait five damn minutes. You didn't even ask how I was or anything! You just came right in without knocking, ready to-"

"Al- _Right_ , goddamn!" he goes, pushing you out of the bathroom. You start laughing at his annoyed tone of voice, and you can hear him start to laugh himself when the door shuts, right before he tells you that you get on his 'damn nerves.'

"Okay!" you shout on your way back to the kitchen. "You know you love me!"

Wondering if he even heard you, you go back to fixing your food with heat prickling up the back of your neck. Not once since the two of you have been doing whatever you've been doing did you think about love. Not the  _word._ And maybe not the action, either, but your ex taught you that words ultimately can mean nothing if the actions aren't there to back it up. He told you he loved you, sure, but he didn't act like it. 

You eat slowly, thinking about N'Jadaka's actions as you chew. People's personalities are very different, and although he's a massively flawed, aggro, borderline hotep with a  _lot_ of baggage you figure at the end of the day he does care about you in his own way. Maybe he won't ever surprise you with rose petals and all that mushy romcom stuff you kind of like, but you suppose he could share the sentiment in other ways.

But he has a  _lot_ to learn about pleasing women in a relationship, that's for damn sure. Pride is a helluva drug.

Just like yours, all of that Baddie Energy your friends helped you regain is starting to slip the longer you wait for N'Jadaka to get out of the shower. Even after you wash the dishes and put the remaining salad fixings into the fridge, you're still nervous and you don't know why. 

Running a shaky hand through your curls you peek into the mirror near the front door in order to make a messy bun. You still haven't decided yet if you want more twists, but ultimately you've been favoring buns and ponytails to save room for the inevitable costume wig you're going to slap on for Halloween.

The shower stops as you fill King's water dish again, deciding to give him the expensive wet food that has to be refrigerated as penance for what he's about to hear tonight. He's a dog, he could care less, but you still make sure to keep the music on in the living room for  _some_ kind of background noise. 

 "You know better than to shit in here," you warn, pointing at King as he devours his food. "Don't you."

He just turns around and does that two-paw happy dance that dogs do, only because you're using a tone of voice that is overly sweet to trick him. It's cute, and you go  _awww_ just as your bedroom door swings open. 

You almost don't want to look at N'Jadaka standing in the door way staring at you, with  _your_ towel wrapped so loose around his  waist you're surprised it's staying up. 

"You had to use my towel?" you scoff, pushing past him.

"You ain't give me one so-"

"What else of mine did you use?" You have a thing about people using your bathroom stuff, even if it's to dry their clean hands on a towel that you use on yourself. "Not my washcloths, right?"

"'Washcloths'. No," he responds, kicking his duffel bag closer to the bed. "I did check to see if they was wet, though."

"Ha-ha," is your curt reply as you dig around for a candle lighter. The place still smells like food. "Yes, I did take a shower like an hour before you broke into my house."

"Yeah remind me to reinforce these weak ass locks, too."

"I think that might violate the terms of my lease," you shoot back, smiling. "Then i'll be kicked out."

N'Jadaka just shrugs. His eyes are boring into yours. "I told you I got you, though."

You get a little nervous again at the implication behind his words but you just keep talking, too afraid to let yourself feel too anxious. Everything feels new again. Still, your voice is quiet when you finally sit next to him on your bed. 

"You don't want me living with you," you go, snorting. "I get on your damn nerves, don't I?"

It's getting harder and harder to ignore the smell wafting off of him, and going by the earthy scent he's probably used his own stuff and you could not be any happier. It's intoxicating, and you missed it and you missed  _him_  so much you can hardly stop yourself from crawling over onto his lap.

As he's peeling stuff off you you make sure to ask an important question, wondering if he acted a fool when he was over in Wakanda. His only response is a bark of a laugh in your face, as if it's an absurd question, but knowing him it's for the wrong reason.

"You act like every bitch over there ain't scared of me."

You roll your eyes. "Stop callin' women 'bitches.' It's not a good look."

"Who am I impressing?" He's such an ass. "Hm?"

With a pointed sigh you go, "Me, nigga. Everything you do, you gotta impress me. And that includes treating women-that you  _don't want to fuck,_ with an ounce of decency."

"You gon' lecture me to death or take these shorts off. Let me know and I can go."

Now you know he's lying. You drape both arms over his broad shoulders and give him that wry look you've gotten good at making. His eyes go straight to your mouth as you speak.

"You haven't seen me for 3 months," you start. "I waited for you every day like a damn puppy and I figured you'd want ass the first time you came back but the least you could do was not act like I owe you-"

You're not stupid, every prolonged lecture from you is purely to make him mad. Every second you waste talking you know is driving him crazy but that's a-okay with you. He made you wait, now you return the favor.

Staring at him, you wonder if he's going to get the gist of why you're annoyed. For such an intelligent person he always seems to fail or ignore social cues with you, like he can't read the room to save his life. But you suppose it's hard to do that when everyone scatters like roaches at your very presence. 

Finally, he rolls his eyes, tilting his head at you and giving you a look of defeat. It worked. 

"Aight," he says. "What you been up to, ma."

"Thank you for asking!" you shout sarcastically, climbing off him. He doesn't like that one bit and all but puts you in a vice grip to get you back on the bed. You keep speaking as if you were never interrupted. "Well, I got another job."

He looks as if you've offended him, but you don't care.  It was nice to be 'taken care of' but you just couldn't keep up with the restless mornings and ultimately had to make a choice; find something to do or start working again. It was hard, it really was, to try and muster the energy to start applying to places again, but all it took was a drunken epiphany one night for you to get your shit together.

You continue while he's still silent for once, "Did I tell you my parents made me get a Marketing degree? Minor in Accounting. Boring shit but boring shit makes money, right?"

He shrugs.

"Anyway, I applied for the place where Sydney works. She said she didn't help me but she did because I have zero actual marketing experience but long story short, I'm gonna be in the Social Media Marketing department with her! And Content Marketing, I am  _so_ excited I get to wear pantsuits and shit sometimes-"

You're just blabbing, endlessly about your new job; how your first weeks went and how nice the inside of the office is. You don't have your own office but you at least have a personalized cubicle that you're allowed to decorate and whatnot and the prospect of having things to do on the daily really helped lift your spirits. 

Then you talk about your therapy sessions, having since moved to laying on your back, making sure to conveniently leave out the fact that you discussed him (anonymously) in great detail. Your therapist suggested you start working again so as to remove your financial dependency on him, even though you were adamant  that all of your savings were yours and yours alone. 

And it's not like you're against N'Jadaka spending money on you, and maybe you will take another extended break from working when you get burnt out again, but for now you're good where you are. 

The whole time you've been speaking, N'Jadaka has been alternating between staring at his phone and staring at you with a bored facial expression that only changes when you mention your meeting with your ex. 

"He thought he was so slick," you say, amused. "Trying to compliment me like I gave him permission to look at me."

"What was you wearing?" is all N'Jadaka's worried about as he shoves you closer to the middle of the bed so he can mirror your position. He's still wearing nothing but the towel and he looks absolutely obscene as he grabs your tv remote. 

Trying not to look at the weakening knot of the towel you go, "I had on jeans and a cropped tee."

He looks you over once before returning his gaze to the tv. All you're wearing now is your athletic shorts and a sports bra and it's funny watching him pretend he's not impressed. The longer you lay there the longer you want to laugh, though, because you can  _feel_ the frustration radiating off him. It's all in the way he's breathing; the way his chest is rising and falling with each harsh exhale. 

It's hilarious. 

Deciding to give in, you lean over ever so slowly and place a kiss right on the side of his head. His dreads are nice and retwisted and you pout a little as you run your hands  through them because  _you_ wanted to do it. But regardless of all the petty details, you do have one thing to say. 

"I missed you. Did you miss me?"

You half expect him to say something stupid to piss you off or maybe blow you off entirely (maybe give you that nonchalant 'nah' he always does), but he only slightly turns his head to meet your eyes. He's staring at you, like he always does, but there's something completely different in the way he's doing it. But then he chuckles, hand reaching over to cup the side of your face and it's probably the most gentle touch he's ever given you. 

Of course, it's all ruined when he yanks your face to meet his but you're happy to oblige with those amazing lips of his. His dumb ass just has to ruin it by pulling away and asking you about your job in the most callous way possible. 

"So, you just got some boring, corporate shit every day? 9 to 5? When you got a nigga that take care of you?"

And there it is, you know exactly what he's getting at, and you know right then he wasn't exactly listening to you earlier and it only just sank in what you were talking about. You don't bat an eyelash when you say, "Maybe I want to take care of myself sometimes. Maybe I don't wanna rely on you for everything  _all_ the time."

He scoffs, looking increasingly more offended by the second. "So, buy you shit, pay bills, get you a new car but you still wanna work in some bitch ass office with a bunch of old corporate colonizers?"

"It's a startup by an Indian guy, i'm not exactly working for 'colonizers' or whatever-"

"That ain't the point."

"It seems like the point."

"You not listenin'."

"And you're not my king."

"Oh, I'm ya king," he snaps, something flashing behind his eyes that reminds you of when you snapped at him once. Back when he told you in that dark, alluring tone of voice that when he tells you to do something he expects you to do it. It was aggro as all hell, but you can  _not_ be a liar and act like it didn't make something drop in your stomach. 

You said it facetiously, jokingly,  _not seriously_ in any facet but he's looking at you like you've threatened a claim. It's like every innocent situation lends itsself to you finding out more and more why N'Jadaka is the way he is. He wanted to be Wakanda's King. He felt it owed to him and mellowing out via a stalemate with T'Challa isn't going to make it magically go away.

That desire is still there, and you see it in his eyes. Feel it in his grip on you when you can't take it anymore and reattach your face to his. What tiny, sweet, moment the two of you may have shared a few minutes ago is completely gone and you feel a fire in you that's scaring you. 

Having him and then  _not_ having him for a little over 3 months has driven you a little wild and the shit he's talking in your ear isn't helping. You have to keep telling him to stop slapping your ass because it's starting to sting longer and longer each time and when he doesn't listen  you bite down on his bottom lip.

You don't mean to do it as hard as you do, and when you taste copper you pull back with a thumb wiping at your mouth. You don't even apologize, just watch him watch you with that agonizing smirk pulling at his lips. He's turning you into the freak that he is, and you fully can't breathe through his fervent kisses when you wrestle a hand down to yank the towel away from him.

Usually he's the one with his hands all over you, prodding and rubbing but this time you can't help yourself and he's burning hot in your hand. You may not be a complete nasty ass disaster like any of the other girls he's been with, and maybe you can't swallow him  _whole_ but if he wants to actually get a semblance of head he's going to have to stop touching you.

He's smirking when you look at him. "What you gon' do with that?"

You give him a flippant shrug, eyes on the prize as you watch him grow firmer in your hands with fascination. You aren't even stroking that hard and yet he's up and at the ready in less than 10 seconds. 

"Watch them nails, ma," he tells you, and you snicker because you forgot they  _are_ longer than what you usually get. But for the most part he just watches you in silence, only letting you know you're doing a good job by hissing, ' _shit'_ ever so often but you aren't even paying him any attention. You're just stuck, basically, admiring his ridiculous body while trying to think of words to describe what you're doing that don't sound corny as hell. 

_Jerking/Jacking/Handjob,_ they all sound like dumb words for immature teenagers to say and you shudder at the thought of using one of them. Your hand is vertically doing The Locomotion on his dick and that should be enough of a description without a corny term. Shit's annoying.

Annoying like his hand coming into contact with your forehead with a  _smack_ as you  lean down. The look you give him is vicious.

"Ow," you go flatly. 

"My bad," he goes, rubbing the spot. "Ain't mean to hit you that hard. Whatchu doin'?"

"What does it _look like_ i'm doing."

"Don't," he says, chuckling. "I'm good with this right here, baby."

That annoys you and you just squint at him. "I've been practicing on popsicles, and reevaluating myself and I've come to the conclusion that you don't know how to keep your hands off me whenever I try and give you head so I always choke half to death. Stop pushing my head down and maybe I won't keep retching like I got food poisoning. You made me think I couldn't do it."

"Aggy ass. I hate that fake customer service voice you do when you tryin' to be funny."

"Shut up!"

It's like the two of you can never sleep together without arguing multiple times, but you missed the back and forth bickering, that's for sure. You just love hearing him talk.

Outside the bedroom something crashes to the ground and judging by the click-clack of claws on the floor King got into something he didn't have any business in. You close your eyes and sigh hard, idly putting your slick thumb to your mouth as you think about what could've made that sound. N'Jadaka only ' _hms'_ at you, amused.

" _KING!"_ you shout, halfway to a noise complaint. " _SIT DOWN SOME-WHERE!"_

The sound of N'Jadaka laughing at you makes you spin back around viciously but you can't get a word in before he's shaking his head at you. "Sound like you got a lil bad ass kid."

"I basically do," you sigh, running a hand across the back of your head. Hair is falling out of the bun. "You can watch him for me for a while."

A short silent moment passes between the two of you, him looking at you expectantly and you observing your right hand that's slick from precum and god knows what else. You wonder if he'd be mad if you told him your shit was starting to cramp. If you kept it up any longer you'd have carpal tunnel in one hand .

Breaking it to him gently, you retake your position before saying, "My hand got tired."

"Them lips outta be tired from you talkin' so damn much," he shoots back, pissing you off by the way he's just reclining and looking at you like that. Like he really is your king and you're  _supposed_ to be servicing him. "You said you been practicin', baby, show me."

Now you don't want to, but you have to. God, you can't stand him, and honestly he should be putting  _his_ lips to work on you since he's the one that vanished for three months but.

It's not important, because the longer you dawdle the more the mood is gonna suffer and with that logic you just go for it. Switching to the left hand for the assist, you almost shyly run your fingers up his length with your cheeks burning so damn hot you think maybe you'll faint. You wish your hair was in your long twists so you can hide your face from the way his eyes are boring into yours. He's studying every movement you make, every twitch of the muscles in your face as you try to fit as much of him in your mouth as you possibly can with each bob of your head. 

And as expected, you feel the palm of his hand on the back of your head, pushing you farther down as a flurry of curses escape his mouth. On one hand you're glad you were good enough to make him cum so early but on the other, you told him not to push your head. On cue, you gag horribly, choking so hard you pull away with a mixture of drool and cum dripping down your chin and teary eyes. He must think you look amazingly lewd because the flash on his cell phone camera is going off before you can properly realize what's happening. 

All he says is a breathy, " _Shit,"_ as he looks at the picture but you're too busy reaching over to turn the fan on. He says you'd better swallow as you do so, with that commanding tone of voice. You wonder who he thinks he's talking to half the time. 

"Wow," you say, wiping your face. "Remind me not to  _ever_ do that again, hard headed ass. Told you I was gonna choke."

He only sucks his teeth, tossing the phone to the side. His pupils are so dilated they look like they've consumed his eyes and you're distracted for only a second but that's enough for him to grab your face with one hand and yank you closer. He's just staring at you, and you think that you  _have_ to look a mess but not according to N'Jadaka. 

"Fuck," he says, squeezing your cheeks between a thumb and a forefinger. "You so god damn fine. Bad as fuck, what you been eatin' when I was gone?"

"Your dick is poking me in the neck."

If you could take a picture of the half-disgusted look he gives you for brushing off his compliment you would. But instead he gets to finish undressing you like he should have in the first place. Your underwear basically have to be peeled off you, they're so damp, and you feel a chill from the fan's air as you lay on your back. This gives you a view of him in all his sexy glory as he hovers over you to do what he loves to do; look at you. 

It's been long enough that you're shy in front of him again, feeling so exposed and open now that you've removed the Baddie Facade. She's still there, of course, but it's hard to be anything but submissive when a man like this is staring at you like  _that._ You just want him on you, in you, and everything in between because being deprived of his rough hands has made you crazy.

And he knows that, the bastard. 

He doesn't seem to mind your hands on the back of his head, pushing you farther and farther against you as he puts that tongue to good use. It's crazy how sensitive you've gotten after not having ventured past your waistband since N'Jadaka's been gone, but after getting your shit wrecked by a man like him all types of self-pleasure has been ruined for you. 

He's ruined you, spoiled you absolutely rotten. 

When you mention this he only hums harshly against you to purposefully make you react and you jerk violently without meaning to, your toes curling so hard they hurt.

"Did I say you could cum ?" he asks, pulling away from you, frowning. "Hm?"

"No," you reply, wiping a stray tear from your eye. "But-"

"'But' nothin'."

He starts positioning himself at your entrance and you immediately press both your hands up against his stomach. You know he'll slap them away like always but it's a habit by now. Your legs are still tingling and you're too sensitive for this right now but you know this is your 'punishment' for having the audacity to be so effected by his oral skills.

Begging, you keep pushing against his stomach. "Wait, I can't yet."

He only snorts. "That ain't my problem."

"Erik," you warn with a squint. You know he hates when you call him that now that you know his real name, but if he doesn't listen to you you're going to fight. 

"Who the f-"

You roll your eyes and cut his question off immediately. " _You!_ I'm talking to  _you._ Like I said, give me a minute."

He calls you weak again but ultimately does what you ask, deciding to give your neglected chest some attention. You can't hang, he knows it, not a millisecond after like some of those no-wall hanging girls he's used to. It doesn't help that he's so  _rough_ on your most sensitive parts to the point you become an overstimulated mess and even air touching your clit seems to hurt afterwards.

"I'm fragile," you sigh, staring at the ceiling. He's heavy ontop of you and you're squirming every few seconds. "And I actually  _have_ walls."

He makes an indignant noise before looking up at you. "You not about to have a goddamn thing in a few minutes."

Your eyebrows shoot straight up. "Well damn, I'm  glad I don't work tomorrow."

The playlist you had going on in the living room finally tapers off into silence before wrecking your entire apartment with the beginnings of that one of Kendrick's loudest songs. For some reason, DNA always sounds 98 percent louder than anything on your playlists and you're not allowed to fear a noise complaint because N'Jadaka shuts you up with another flurry of deep kisses.

Gasping as he enters you, you can't even be mad because it has actually been about a minute and that's all you asked for . You'd never really thought that your body would act like this after 3 months of zero dick but sure enough you screw your eyes shut for a couple seconds at the intrusion. He's back to cursing you out for being tight in your ear, talking all kinds of shit and absolute filth as he starts at an agonizingly slow pace. 

The music outside starts to pick up soon and so does he, and you don't even know if he's doing it on purpose or just getting lost in you after so long but all you can do is try and keep your voice down. It's hard, because with every thrust and harsh connection his body makes with yours you're going straight to God. He must not care that your nails are probably digging grooves into his scarred back, because every time you dig in he just keeps on grunting above you.

"You talked all that shit earlier," he breathes, not missing a beat. "I told you all them 'bitches' was gon' get you in trouble."

You can't even speak, and he knows that.

"Damn." And he leans away from you just enough to look down. "Did this shit get tighter when I was gone?"

It sure as hell feels like it because you're filled to maximum capacity and you've never felt better. That slight pain you get from him going so damn deep can hardly compare to the euphoria you're feeling with every snap of his hips. It's obscene how crazy his dick is driving you; absurd how tears are falling from your eyes and you just know you're going to be full out coming when you're afforded an orgasm. It's going to be like the first one he gave you, you think, the one that had you sobbing into the sheets like you were out of your rabbit-ass mind.

"Get up," he suddenly snaps, pulling out, and you're left confused and annoyed at the interruption. You watch him stand and go straight to your vanity table before turning to give you a vicious glare. 

"What?" you go, leaning up. "You're asking me to-"

"I ain't askin' nothin'," he says, and that's enough for you to get up and join him.  Your vanity table is your favorite thing about your room, and the mirror is actually attached to the wall rather than the desk you bought from IKEA. All of the bulbs are controlled by a single pull string and N'Jadaka makes you yank it as he bends you over your poor table. 

You want to ask him why he couldn't just do this on the bed but the second you look up you realize why. The mirror and the table are level in a way that he can get a perfect view of you and your ass arched up as he takes you from behind. And that, he does. 

All your shit is rattling violently on the table as he slams into you, your lipsticks and brush holder and perfume bottles dangerously close to being all over your carpeted floor. Your hands search desperately for something to hold onto before you finally settle for pressing your palms up against the surface of the mirror. He calls himself 'daddy' as he's talking shit behind you, asking you questions about whether or this is 'his.' If  _you_ are his. You nod pitifully, completely unable to lift your head off the table at this point and soon you won't be able to hold yourself up with how weak your knees are getting. 

Hell, and with how loud you're screaming you might have to pack up and move in with him. 

He warns you that he's about to cum in you the second that irritating ass knot forms in your stomach and it's irritating because it means this is almost over. It's like you get butterflies too, all fluttering inside your body as you collapse onto the (newly defaced) surface of your vanity. Your legs feel like they're seizing up over and over again and all you can do is let out a pitiful sounding whine as N'Jadaka carries you back to your rumpled bedsheets. 

Well, he more like tosses you over in the direction of the bed but you land there all the same, burying your face in your pillow because this is the longest orgasm you've ever experienced.  _"Shit,"_ Is all you can physically muster outside of tired breaths.

"Don't get comfortable," he says flippantly, still standing. "If you think you not about to get this dick 3 more times tonight you dumb as hell. This  _my_ pussy tonight, baby, I ain't had shit in 3 months."

Well, shit.

All hail King Killmonger you guess, since he's true to his name.

 

 


	21. hallow's eve eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you finally get sick of the disrespect

-

 

The second that alarm hits you it feels like you get shot right in the temple, your head hurts so bad. It's around 8 in the morning, usually when you wake up for work, but you were lucky enough to have Friday off. It's a good thing, too, because that heavy asshole snoring next to you probably collapsed your cervix the night before with his 3-month long pent up lust.

You groan as you struggle to lean up, feeling every muscle you have below your belly button just seize up violently with each movement.

"I can't fucking stand you," you croak, heading straight to the hallway with a horrible limp. Hopefully it's early enough that none of the people in your building will see how bent over you are as you take King to use the bathroom. So far, he's been really good about not pooping in your apartment, and you apologize because usually you take him outside at around 6. 

It's really cool outside and you think about what you're going to cook (or order), making sure to add a bottle of aspirin to that shopping list because you feel like you got tossed out a moving car. Despite the throbbing between your legs you can't act like you weren't in heaven because you were. N'Jadaka is ruthless and knows your body in ways that you don't always think about. 

He's just going to have to deal with not knowing your body for another two weeks. 

That, and it's punishment for him leaving for so long. You don't care  _what_ the reason was. T'Challa would've found a way to tell you if you were dating  _him_ instead.

You toss King a treat when you get back up to the apartment because you're too tired to walk him right now, but the best thing about dogs is that they don't seem to mind when their owners are wrecked. Thinking about Zeus as you fill King's dishes, you wonder how they're going to act together now that they're the same size. You can only imagine.

When you peek in your bedroom, N'Jadaka is still sleeping, so you go ahead and hop in the shower to wash off last night's debauchery. The water is turned as high as you can possibly take it and the steam is nearly putting you right to sleep standing up. All of your soaps and gels are all open and are releasing a smell that's really about to put you in a relaxed coma and by the time you nod off you think it's time to get out.

You dry off and lotion up with one of those expensive body shop creams that smells like coconuts, spending an extra few seconds just smelling the jar. Maybe it's because of your father and his horrible taste in cologne, but growing up you  _always_ had to have some sort of candle or heavily scented lotion or bottles of perfumes around you at any point. Your mother once described your bedroom as smelling like a Bath and Body Works. 

N'Jadaka's still knocked out by the time you exit the bathroom, and you snort as you pull on your robe. It's kimono style and soft silk, and you don't plan on taking it off until you're ready for bed again. Nothing is getting you out of the house today.

"Hey..."

He doesn't stir at all at your touch, and you're half afraid he's going to hop up out of his sleep and damn near choke you out again.

"N," you go, shaking his shoulder a bit. "You hungry?"

Usually those words are enough to wake anybody up but he sleeps on, both arms holding onto a pillow tight underneath him. The 3-month long mission must have exhausted him (and your great sex) because he looks completely at peace with every mean-ass muscle in his face being as relaxed as you've ever seen them. 

In the living room near the patio door, King is on his side, effectively leaving you the only person awake right now. Rather than joining everyone you grab your phone and start searching for a screenshot from the Cafe' in the other building next to yours. They deliver breakfast to residents of your apartment complex and it singlehandedly eased the pain you have of leaving your precious Cafe 85c behind all these weeks. You still swing by and load up on pastries every now and again, though.

The woman on the phone knows your voice immediately and you throw a joke in about it being Thick Season to which she cackles and calls you stupid. She lives upstairs and reminds you of Sydney a little, right down to her laugh. 

You decide to double your normal order to be nice, even though N'Jadaka hasn't waken up yet, and she flat out asks you if you're pregnant or something. You shake your head at this subject coming up again. 

"Not pregnant," you say, laughing. "Just eatin' good."

"Ha! Okay, I'll send up Kev in 15-20 minutes."

The sound of his name makes you kind of want to cancel the order altogether, but you hang up with an affirmative anyway. Kev is a walking personification of annoying and he reminds you of Keith from the old neighborhood. Obnoxious and unable to realize when a girl isn't interested.

He's been flirting with you on and off and asking you out for the past two months, always trying to be slick and look behind you to see if you have company. That freaked you out and now you only meet him in the hallway with your door shut. Or with King.

You try and sit gingerly on the couch, wincing at the pain you're feeling  before deciding to lay back instead. A terrifying thought passes through your mind as you do so, wondering if N'Jadaka tore something inside you last night. It's definitely possible, despite how wet and ready and wanting you were of him last night. But what's that line in Romeo and Juliet about 'loving moderately?' You can relate harder than ever.

The both of you were greedy, lustful assholes last night and now you're suffering for it. 

But shit, it was kind of worth it. 

The shower turns on, distracting you from your quiet thoughts, and you call out a  _good morning_ even though it probably won't get answered. 

To your surprise, you hear a sleepy mumble that sounds like, "Mornin'," back at you. 

You 'hm' thoughtfully, staring at the ceiling again. The past 3 months you've had a lot of time to think about N'Jadaka and how he's treated you so far and if he's even capable of being civil when there's no immediate gain. You want him to stop acting like he doesn't care one way or another, and that he can be sincere without letting go of his annoying hyper-masculinity. 

But that's men, baby!

You've nodded off in no time, only flinching awake when King barks like somebody is about to grab you. Living alone and being a woman, having a dog that can bark like a hellhound to both alert you and scare away intruders is a blessing. Most of the time, though, it makes you sick.

There's knocking on the door, your delivery, and you hurry over to it with a  _mean_ limp in your step. Kev looks taken aback when you fling the door open before re-steadying himself like you didn't just scare him.

"Hey," you say, breathless. "Sorry. I was knocked out."

That, and you forgot what you were wearing. But the damage is already done, you're already standing in front of the delivery guy looking like you're at the start of a porno. "How much?"

He tells you the total while you pat your nonexistent pockets, not remembering where your wallet is. The best thing about this Cafe is that their delivery people always show up with card readers where you can add a tip and everything without having to look for quarters and shit to get enough.

You tell him, "Hold on," before scurrying back into the house to find your purse. It's on the kitchen bar like always, but there's so much garbage and receipts falling out of it that you can't find your rinky-dink little cardholder among it all. 

The smack on your ass stops your pursuit and you just turn to watch N'Jadaka take your place at the front door with his card. There's almost no words being exchanged between him and Kev and that's kind of hilarious to you, but hopefully it stops you from feeling uncomfortable during future deliveries. 

You're chuckling when N'Jadaka shuts the door, going to grab the food from him with a stupid grin on your face. He's wearing the hoodie you stole from him and black sweatpants,  with the best just-woke-up-hair that just makes you want to jump him again. But then you try and sit down again and it reminds you to swear off dick for the next month. 

He notices you acting weird as he's looking through your cabinets, addressing it with a raise of his eyebrows and a nod in your direction.

"I'm sore," you go, setting up the coffee machine. "I'm really sore."

He snorts. "Damn, my bad."

"Yes, your bad! You damn roughneck."

"C'mere."

With an attitude you move a few steps closer, pouting to let him know you're 'mad' and don't feel any kind of  way about him kissing your forehead. The gesture is kind of loving, kind of bae-like, but you want him to know it doesn't fix the fact that you're lowkey afraid you can't have kids anymore. When you tell him this he calls you dumb before lifting you up by the seat of your butt to sit on the countertop.

He says, "You ain't got shit to worry about. I know what i'm doing. You think this the first time I ever wrecked some girl's shit? Had her walkin' all the way bold in the morning? That's funny."

"Thanks. Glad to know I'm not special."

"You opened the door wearin' this?" he suddenly asks, staring at your chest. "No panties on or nothin'?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh i'm 'sir' now?" You know what's coming. "But you won't call a nigga, 'daddy', though."

Shaking your head, you reply, "Because you're not my daddy."

His voice is low and gruff in your ear, beard tickling your face when he says, "If you think that, I ain't fuck you hard enough last night."

You have to close your eyes and say a little prayer at that one, pleading with God to save you from the thoughts that pass through your head at his words. You have to remember that your cervix is in a wheelchair, and that any more of N'Jadaka would probably kill you, and that's enough for you to resist.

The urge passes and you just decide to give ask for a kiss as consolation. He pretends to not notice how you're puckering your lips like a fool and just before you go to cuss him out he attacks you with a kiss and both hands on your sides. You yelp in surprise, hitting him on the arm for scaring you but you're blessed with the sight of his cute ass dimples.

And you don't want to necessarily sound sound like a corny old white lady, but that shit is breathtaking. 

 

* * *

 

 

It's early afternoon and you're back in bed, waiting for N'Jadaka to come back with an intense paranoia about him being out of sight. It sucks that him being gone for so long has got you like this, and even the distance between your living spaces is kind of making you nervous.

You think long and hard about whether or not you'd be willing to live with him if he actually asked, and if you're willing to forfeit your deposit. 

Your phone buzzes with a few notifications from Instagram  and you dread opening it for the fact that you've been being stalked by B fangirls for the past few months. It seems as though every few days there's a new chick to block, and it's made you post more and more petty selfies for the hell of it. You know for a fact that you look better than her, despite your similar bodies, but you have the benefit of not being a hateful bitch. 

Sure enough, there are a bunch of new comments from people being assholes but the real shock has to come from the fact that you're tagged in a photo from ' _kingkillmonger.'_ It's always so funny to you how he's completely embraced the fact that he's Killmonger even after the fact, considering it was a nickname given to him.

He truly doesn't give a fuck and doesn't care who knows it. 

The picture is of you, staring in concentration at a K-Cup with that little robe on from earlier. Truthfully, you were trying to figure out why the shit tasted so gross but you can't lie and act like your ass doesn't look  _impeccable_ in that silk kimono. 

Sometimes you just have to ogle yourself and that's completely normal. 

Your hair is still in a slightly less messy bun, and you definitely look tired..but you suppose N'Jadaka finds it nice enough for his caption to say what it says. 

_**kingkillmonger.**  _ _bad. as. fuck_

You want to kill his ass for tagging you in the photo, because now all his little ugly stans who idolize every muscle in his body are coming at you. His bio says Erik Stevens, and that profile picture has you biting your lip because it's nothing but the lower half of his face with those fangs bared.

You don't even get time to savor how good he looks in literally all of these photos because that irritating '1' pops up to let you know someone has something to say. 

_So you think you the shit, now, huh._

You roll your eyes and type a reply so quick your fingers are a blur. 

**_> I know I'm the shit. _ **

**_> Thank you for asking._ **

N'Jadaka comes in, then, and at this point you're not even mad that he essentially keeps breaking in. What's more important is that you  _know_ this 'B' bitch is probably the one sending you these messages through finsta accounts because there's some tinge of pettiness throughout the insults that just seem personal. 

You can feel it, it's her. 

If you're right, it's extra pathetic, because if someone has to sneak diss and make fake accounts like this they're insecure as all hell. Ironic how  _you're_ the one who isn't for once. 

"Everything okay?" you say, tossing your phone down as N'Jadaka approaches you. "I haven't checked on your house in a week, so-"

"It's good," he says, sitting down on your bed harshly. "It's hot as hell in there, though."

"Oh, shit. I turned the air off since no one was in there, I'm sorry."

"Mm."

Just as expected, he starts fooling around with your remote control while you watch boredly, unable to do anything but because of the throbbing in your lower abdomen. He tries to put his head on your stomach and you nearly seize up, and you hurt too much to  _lay_ on your stomach so he can use your butt as a pillow instead. It's funny, but you flat out tell him that  _you're_ the one that needs to be laying on him since he knocked your organs loose last night. 

It's how you end up on his back, nodding off like a crackhead because he's more comfortable than he looks. He keeps trying to watch Dragon Ball Something (whether it be Z, GT, Super or whatever) and you keep talking, getting nothing but the occasional grunt in response. 

He's clearly here to keep you company and nothing else, so it's funny that he's acting like you're an annoying fly rather than do the bare minimum like you'd asked him a while ago (like rubbing your back or feet or butt or  _something)._

The quiet moments when the two of you aren't arguing or on each other like rabbits is something you both appreciate and yearn for. Those times where you can just exist in each other's company without necessarily interacting other than touches or looks. Your lovely therapist told you to 'demand' more from romantic partners as far as not settling for the bare minimum like you did with your ex, but it's hard to do that without bringing it back to that clown. 

You hum at this thought, closing your eyes and frowning, which elicits a reaction from the man under you for the first time in three episodes. 

He rolls you off him, putting a hand out to keep you from falling off the bed. Rather than ask you what's wrong he just makes some smart quip with a smirk on his face. 

"Damn, you missed a nigga, huh."

"Shut up!" you go, laughing. "I'm mad at you."

"For what?" You can tell he doesn't care.

"For leaving me for 3 months, bitch!" And you punctuate it by poking him in the middle of his forehead with one knuckle, avoiding your long acrylic nail. He almost flips you backwards off the bed but you're laughing the whole time he's grabbing you. 

"There's no way in hell you couldn't have sent me  _some_ kind of note. A phone call, a text, a message in a goddamn bottle- you had me thinking something bad happened!"

It's sort of a delayed response, you having been so caught up in missing his touch last night that you hadn't really dwelled on it. But now that your head is free of lust it's rapidly filling up with so much other shit it's sending you for a loop. One, being how worried you were about him and two, being B.

You spill it all, talking about the stuff you left out the night before as N'Jadaka acts like he isn't paying you attention. His eyes are half-lidded and staring at the tv screen, while his left hand is just resting on your ass because he's addicted to it. You've stopped questioning it.

Finally, the end credits to one of the episodes start to roll and he acts like you're worthy of his attention again. What he says pisses you off.

"Don't pay her no attention, baby, she act like a lil ass girl sometimes. That's why I left her alone. She caught feelings real quick and now she got a attitude. Don't trip."

You just look at him, because you've kind of caught feelings as well but you just keep it quiet for now. He doesn't seem to understand the literal harassment you've been going through for the past 3 months; this chick's fangirls have been relentless with their threats and insults. You're not an invincible being; sometimes the shit gets to you,  _especially_ with what you've been going through lately. They feed into your insecurities and you want it to be overwith.

Sighing, you just keep your head on his chest with your eyes on the adjacent wall. Every time he breaths your head lifts up and down and it's beginning to put you to sleep. 

"I'm sick," you say. "Either you're gonna tell her to fuck off or I will, and I'm not gonna do that much talking."

"Okay," he goes, sounding impressed. "You got hands?"

Half jokingly, you say, "I got a taser."

He starts laughing at you, only stopping when you lean up to give him another mean look. You're very over it, and that includes him acting like everything you do is too amusing to take seriously. He tells you again, that you need to just ignore it and you get so fed up you just axe the conversation altogether. 

Halloween is very very close, and you know so many people around the city that go to parties literally every day leading up to it. It used to exhaust you just to watch everyone find costumes on your timeline, drinking and smoking only to pack up and do the exact same thing the very next day. Kayla managed to get you and Sydney into some club party on Halloween night, and the three of you are planning to dress as Clovers from Bring it On. Sydney's mom made the outfits and it's all ready to go in your closet.

You bring up the festivities to him, asking if he's handing out candy and he looks at you like you have three heads. 

"Hell no, I'm not handin' out candy," he says. "Ain't that many kids in that neighborhood anyway."

"You so annoying. What are you doing all day then?"

He shrugs. "I might have some people over. B's album release party is the night before so, I might-"

And there it is. You finish the sentence for him, "'Might,' my ass. You're going. I'm your plus one. That's it, no questions. Thank you, sir."

 

* * *

 

 

The night before Halloween you've never felt more wracked with anxiety. The air is warm with a hint of a cool breeze, just how you like it, and stars are twinkling above you as all hell rages inside your brain. 

After you told your girls where you were going they both told you not to do anything but sit there and look pretty, and you said you'd do it. All jokes aside, they really don't want you to go to jail or get jumped but you don't really think N'Jadaka would let anyone touch you. They seem  _really_ adamant that you don't actually go off. You don't think you can really 'fight' per se, but it's not like bitches start going off like Black Widow when they're in a street brawl. 

You just kind of, attack.

Besides, you put too much effort into your appearance to think of messing it up with a dumb fight. You just want that sneak-dissing heifer to know that you're not as disposable as  _she_ is. N'Jadaka is stuck with you at this point, and you're sick of being hidden. 

The car ride is mostly silent, at least between the two of you. There's music on and N'Jadaka is nodding his head along to the beat but otherwise stays silent as he drives. He looks good tonight, but when doesn't he, keeping everything simple with a black tee/jeans combo that never really gets old. The gold jewelry he has on is so shiny it's blinding you every time you look over at him, and you had to convince him to wear those glasses again. 

When he'd gone to slide on a dark grey flannel you'd asked how much it cost and it made you wanna gag. You wish you would spend over 25 dollars for tartan plaid in any facet. But regardless, he looks good as hell and you keep staring at him every time you pass under a street light. The traffic is as bad as it normally is, and the silence is beginning to get deafening. 

"What you so nervous for?" he finally asks, glancing over at you with an amused smirk. "I'm not stayin' long, so chill out."

You hate that he can read you with barely any effort, especially because you don't believe you look especially nervous. Just mean, you suppose, but that's your normal resting face anyway. 

He finally gives you what you  _really_ wanted when he says, "You look good, though, girl."

"Thanks.."

You mean it, you do, but your stomach is doing flips the longer you sit there and do nothing. Your first plan was to wear a super form-fitting black dress that Kayla let you borrow but the straps popped the second you breathed. It forced you to go back to what your friends call your 'doll-like' tastes. They'd convinced you not to wear any of  _your_  dresses, but said you looked cute in the off-the-shoulder babydoll top and some high waisted mini skirt from some IG boutique. You're half afraid it's going to turn into a belt if you bend down too far. That, or completely disintegrate it's so damn cheap.

The top is cropped to just below your chest and you are  _not_ wearing a bra , something that N'Jadaka noticed off the bat. You ignored him and threw on a bunch of jewelry before taking a huge swig of the bottle of vodka in his cabinet for the road.

You don't think you've ever put so much effort into your hair and makeup,  and N'Jadaka had been the one to suggest you wear a sleek ponytail. In his words, he wants everyone to see your face, what's 'his.'

Whole dissertation about how creepy it sounded aside, you push it to the back of your mind as the car slows down in front of the club. There are people lined up down the block, and the music is bumping so hard it's like the entire sidewalk is vibrating with the beat. 

A valet takes N'Jadaka's keys and you scowl because you have to open the door yourself, struggling on the curb in your heels.  He finally gets the wherewithal to extend a hand to you and you just roll your eyes. There's too much going on, and you're nervous again at the eyes watching the two of you go inside. A burly bouncer doesn't even check his list, stepping aside to let you pass with a nod. You catch him looking at your behind as you do and you just press yourself closer to N'Jadaka's side.

He tells you to stop acting shy, that you're out today so he can show you off, so  _you_ can show you off.

"Stop saying that," you whisper to him. "I'm not a trophy."

"But you shinin' like one tonight, though."

You don't get a chance to say anything back because he playfully pinches you on the side to make you laugh. He has it down to a science, timing it just right so that when you smile, damn near the whole place sees it. 

It's not as dark as you initially expect, the entire room lit a soft pink that compliments the cream sofas perfectly.  In the back of the room there's a small stage and DJ booth, in front of several large tv screens and a massive image of B's new album cover. You haven't seen her just yet, too busy watching bartenders and waiters slink around the club carrying trays of water bottles. 

Her over-produced music is playing high above you but your attention is on N'Jadaka and N'Jadaka only. You follow him like a lost kid, never loosening your grip on his arm as he nods at random people you've never met before. 

He comes to a stop in front of a table, but you're too busy looking at  a woman behind you and her cotton candy pink fro. She's pointing to your top and smiling, and you have to lean over to hear above the music. 

"-I said, that's cute! Where'd you get it?"

"Oh," you say, pleasantly surprised. "Thank you. I ordered it from one of those online stores."

She leans back, knowing look on her face. "Yeah, yeah, them overly expensive places with the cheap ass clothes that rip apart after one wear?"

You nod, sharing a laugh that does a decent job of getting rid of a few of the butterflies in your stomach. She goes back to sharing a drink with her friends, leaving you to pay attention to the conversation going on in front of you.

"Hey,  _Erik,"_ says an overly sweet voice. "I  _missed you~"_

And there she is, dressed in some tacky faux-fur bikini top and matching shorts combo, leaning in to try and hug the man you're currently standing behind. You just look at her, making sure to step forward just enough so she's cut right off. 

"Oh," she says, giving you the dirtiest look. It disappears after a split second but you caught it, and you have to stifle a giggle at her obvious attempt to seem unbothered. 

You look up at N'Jadaka, and he can't even begin to hide how amused he is at the situation. His attempt at diffusing the situation is taking a seat next to some familiar guys and pulling your hand down so you can join him. She watches every move you make, stuck, and if you were as petty as your friends you'd do something stupid. 

But you're not, so you just take the only available seat there is; on N'Jadaka's right leg. His lap would've probably been more comfortable but he's a man and you've known since you were a kid that they all sit with their legs spread a yard apart. 

The party is pretty lowkey, and you see a few familiar faces from the music industry, but otherwise you do what you're there to; sit and look pretty. It works for the most part, and you're showered with compliments that come in the  form of people telling N'Jadaka how 'bad' you are, and it's funny that they all seem afraid of offending him. There's so many  _'how are you, sweethearts'_ that you get sick of answering, and before long you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. It's only been a couple hours by now, too long.

On the way back you send a quick text to your friends. 

_**> I know I basically came out tonight to objectify myself but this shit is boring. I could never be a trophy wife. ** _

Kayla responds first. 

>  _It's all worth it to show that sneak-dissin hoe that you're an upgrade. If she saw you then you can go, the job is done._

> But _... her album isn't a little bit good?_

You roll your eyes at Kayla's desperate straddling of the line between being a friend and stanning a chick who's disrespecting you. Truthfully, what few songs you haven't tuned out haven't been  _trash_ but they're still predictable and extra. They lack heart, to you, but you're not here to be a music critic. You're here to be petty  and observe yourself in the smudged bathroom mirror. 

The bowl of pink mints next to the hand towels grosses you out , and you almost get distracted at the fact that they're OPEN until someone at the mic brings you back to earth. 

_I just wanna thank y'all for coming through tonight.._

You have to scoff at her cutesy, 'shy' voice as you exit the bathroom, leaning against the wall with your arms folded in amusement. She goes on and on about her album and who helped her out or who got her through the 'tough times' (her 'nigga Dee') and the speech is dripping in so much fake-sincerity that halfway through you  go to order a drink. 

The bartender slides you the glass quietly, because apparently you're all supposed to be listening and supporting but you're so over this whole affair you don't know what to do. 

Hearing 'Erik's' name has your attention again, and you watch her affectionately call him  _E_ in a way that makes your skin crawl.  Apparently, he's the reason she has a career, and had he not sponsored her back in the day she wouldn't even be standing here looking like a Q-tip in her outfit. You swear she looks you dead in the damn eye as she's talking about him, and all you offer is a smile in her direction. 

You can thank your mother for teaching you how to smile but not have it reach your eyes. 

"Damn, so it's true, then," says a voice from behind you. On this night, Hallow's Eve Eve, the Lord sees fit to tip your emotional scale from petty to attempted felony.

"I  _know_ you're fuckin' lying," is all you say, draining the rest of your drink as Devon tries to smile his way back into your pants. The music starts back up again and the room collectively breaths, allowing you to blend into the crowd once more as your social-climbing ex looks you up and down with a shine in his eyes. 

He elaborates on his previous statement, leaning against the bar and saying, "I thought that was you all over that nigga's IG but I wasn't too sure."

"It was one picture," you say, frowning. "And watch what you say."

Devon ignores you completely, waving away your warning with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Ain't nobody scared of him, he ain't no  _real_ thug. Army kills don't mean shit in the streets; that's all shit a white man told him to do. "

"Devon, are you stupid or are you drunk?" It's been a minute since you've said his whole name out loud and it feels wrong on your tongue; bitter. But dating this fool once means you know this fool and he's definitely had a few drinks in him already. A little Hennessy mixed with a man's ego is a disastrous combination and it's clear to you that he's seeing something he wants and is overcompensating for it. 

Namely, acting tough in front of you as if it's going to make you run out of here with him and go to a hotel. Please. 

He keeps running that mouth of his. "So y'all just fuckin' or did he wife you yet?"

"Is that your business?"

"Why the hell you so mean? I saw you when you walked in, all you ever do is look like you wanna kill somebody."

Maybe you do. And maybe, your resting facial expression is the only thing distracting random dudes from your ass long enough for them to leave you alone. Look 'mean,' have a pit bull, and have a killer for a lover. So far, so good.

Sort of. 

Glancing back to the front table you see that N'Jadaka has started to look for you now, head turning as he slowly scans the crowd of people and you don't even want him to see you talking to this man. The last thing you need is a fight.  _You_ were supposed to be the one probably fighting tonight. 

So you order another drink, ignoring Devon completely as you do. He's too drunk and too irritating to take a hint so there he lingers, entirely too close because you can smell his strong cologne and the liquor on his breath.

Then the dumbass touches your arm.

You jerk it back, giving him a warning look that resonates from somewhere deep in your whole soul because you swear you'd smash the glass into the side of his head. The therapy helped you, but that hurt never goes away. The betrayal you felt and the hopelessness you experienced when you were with him cut you deep and made you feel like nothing you did was worth anything. Starving you physically and emotionally gave you all this baggage you're forced to carry around in your current relationship to the point where you're  _afraid_ to even call what you have that. 

"Would you stop actin' like that?!" he exclaims, sounding like you're being weird. "All I did was touch you!"

"Exactly," you say calmly, dangerously close to exploding. "Devon, I swear, if you don't get the fuck away from me-"

He just sucks his teeth as if he's about to ask you what you're going to do, but it's then that you feel all the hair on the back of your neck stand up. It's like a shadow gets cast over you, one hand landing ontop of yours to stop its trembling against the glass of vodka. So perceptive, that N'Jadaka.

He just knew you were about to glass someone. 

Devon tries his damnedest to appear unbothered, and maybe he is because he's that damn stupid (any man that can lie and tell you a woman you caught him with is his cousin isn't intelligent in any form). He's puffing his chest all out despite the fact that he's shorter and  _much_ smaller than the man currently standing protectively behind you. 

"So you the one, huh," Devon says, looking N'Jadaka up and down. " _Killmonger."_

You have to chuckle a bit, and so does the bartender. The two of you share a look with an understanding that this can only end one way. But hey, why not enjoy the show?

The air is thick with silent, hot, tension that lasts nearly an entire half song until Devon opens his mouth to make some quip about  _Killmonger_  being a "stage name." N'Jadaka checks him in the chest so damn hard it makes several people stare, having heard the song over the music. It was quick, with both fists, and Devon damn near stumbles backwards out of the door. 

Having no idea how to react you just start cracking up, a complete 'face crack' from the rather emotionless facade you've had since you got there. You're laughing like you just watched the Courtroom episode of Martin, leaning on the bar for support because your ankles are going to buckle in these heels if you keep it up.

Lord, you don't know how you find yourself in half the situations you get into, but you definitely aren't complaining because life has been entertaining as hell since you've been with N'Jadaka and at this point you wouldn't trade it. 

He's just staring Devon down, doing that head tilt he does that makes it seem like he's sizing someone up before going in for the kill and you're just  _dying._ It's so satisfying to see your bitch of an ex look like he just got his chest caved in, pretending not to be phased when he clearly is. 

B comes up then, clearly to say something to  _Erik,_ but stops dead when she sees you laughing. You know how chicks like her think, and insecurity only manifests itsself in one way at times like these.

She asks you what you're laughing at, all tough like she's about to do something, and when you don't respond she opens her big ass mouth. You don't know if it's because she's near N'Jadaka, or if it's because she's a little tipsy but she has a lot more to say all of a sudden now that she thinks you're laughing at her.

It reminds you of the adults in Charlie Brown, all this talking but nothing is actually coming out that doesn't sound like noise. She spits noise about her previous relationship with  _Erik_ and noise about her being badder than you could ever be and noise about bullshit and before you know it you stop laughing. 

The hand that N'Jadaka was holding down is free again and that free vodka is all over that B bitch's front. You don't even say a damn thing because you're pretty sure you black out. Your brain isn't even operating on normal rules, moving slower than your hands because you didn't consciously  _think_ to reach over and pop her right in the lips but you do it anyway. It's weird, but hell, if you have to have an out-of-body experience in some chick's album release party you may as well let her know you're sick of her mouth.

People just stare like they always do, mouth agape as the Belle of the Ball starts swinging at nothing with vodka in her eyes. 

MAC lipstick and vodka drips from your knuckles as you grab your purse, pushing past your ex on your way to the door. No one even tries to stop you, no one says anything, and you don't know if it's because of  _you_ or because of the smirking man trailing close behind you like a silent guard dog. 

You're glad N'Jadaka is silent, and unlike that trash rapper and your trash ex, you don't have shit to say either. 

People talk too much and you're sick of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think its time t'challa made a reappearance!


	22. t'challa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> semi-short, but semi-sweet
> 
> get ready to imagine chadwick's sweet, sweet, accented voice

 

_'That's my fuckin' girl.'_

Those late-night words from N'Jadaka echo loudly in your mind as you wake up from the deepest sleep you've had in a while. They'd struck a chord with you, not because of his irritating ways of complimenting you, but because he didn't sound as flippant or uncaring as he usually does. He always praises you with an air that he could actually care less either way, or like he's talking to himself rather than to you, and you've gotten used to it. 

But last night was very different. No one spoke leaving the club, and all he did was give you this crooked grin whenever you glanced over at him. You think he's proud of this confrontational side of you, has to be why he just  _had_ to pull over and pull you onto his lap on that dark road. You don't think you've ever been fucked in the drivers seat before, and definitely not in a car that expensive. You're not complaining, but he had to drive to his place with you still on his lap afterwards, knees too weak to carry you back to your seat. 

His own personal liquor cabinet got opened then, and still neither of you spoke. He'd said his one hushed sentence to you before promptly showing you what he meant by it on the couch, and the basement pool table, the shower and then his bed.

At least he had the decency not to put you in a wheelchair again.

Now that the haze has worn off, though, you're just worried about getting more shit from people for punching a celebrity in the mouth.

You're not afraid of her, but you are sick of blocking new people every five seconds. For that, your profile is 'private' for a while. You barely use it anyway.

Next to you, N'Jadaka's cell phone vibrates harshly on the nightstand and you turn your head to try and wake him but he's already on it. Lazily, he reaches over you to grab it, squinting against the light as he unlocks it. You try and wiggle from up underneath his heavy body as he does so, asking him what time it is now that he's up. 

He doesn't move. 

"Get  _off_ me," you whisper,  pushing. He only puts more of his weight on you to put his cell back on the table. It's nearing 6 AM and you're starting to feel last night's soreness as he tries to pull you ontop of him. 

Luckily for you (and him, honestly) it's the good kind of soreness. A slight reminder of all those different places he ruined you in, rather than the back breaking culmination of 3 months worth of his sexual frustrations all at once. 

But now that you're awake, you can't go back to sleep just yet, even though he smells like an intoxicating blend of cocoa butter and whatever that tropical-scented grease he uses for his hair. It's maddening, and while you enjoy his cologne or body spray or whatever he normally uses, this smells so much more natural to you. 

And it drove you absolutely crazy last night.

He's knocked out again by the time you manage to wrestle your way out of his iron grip, and you creep quietly over to your overnight bag to grab some clothes. Pulling on your favorite over-sized sweatshirt, you yank on a pair of shorts before tiptoe-ing down the steps. 

The house is still as pitch black as ever but N'Jadaka's begun to leave the stove light on for your sake whenever you're over and you appreciate it. Without it, his place is just a smaller, art gallery exhibit with masks and statues all over the place. The biggest, yet creepiest to you, is stationed right by the patio door. 

Distracted by the horns, the wild mane of hair and the unsettling eyes, you nearly miss King walking up to the glass door with his tail wagging. 

"Hey," you say, stepping out into the backyard. The air is so fresh and nice this early, and you stand there and breath it all in for a second before reaching down to scratch behind King's ears. You think he's going to enjoy being over here for a few days, just for the space where he can run around for a minute.

All of his favorite toys are scattered all over the place and his water bowl is tipped over because he can't keep his big paws out of it to save his life. You chastise him for it before letting him follow you inside to refill it.

Just as  you set it down there's a knock on the front door. One, two, three, precise and to the point. They aren't hard knocks at all, but it still scares you nonetheless, and you have half a mind to go wake N'Jadaka. 

Usually when someone is at the door they ring his doorbell or call, and not a single sound comes from upstairs to let you know if he's getting ready to come down. King has begun to growl, low in his throat, but you shush him as you approach the front door. There's a camera hooked up to the house that lets you know who's standing on the porch via the screen nearest the lock. It's a great thing, and you're glad he showed you how to use it because it just looked like an innocuous black panel attached to the wall. 

"What?" you mumble to yourself, confused as to why two women from the Dora Milaje are standing on the front porch. You have a feeling they won't be asking again with polite knocks so you start unlocking the door in silence. You recognize them as being the ones that had followed you and Shuri to the mall, and she'd explained that they were basically Kingsguard. You kind of hate to relate everything to Game of Thrones, but hell it's the only frame of reference you have for stuff like this. 

You'll learn soon enough, you suppose.

They're wearing simple black clothing, something Shuri said they tended to don in their off-duty moments. They don't do anything but intimidate you in a way that has you standing there dumbfounded until one of them impatiently motions you to follow. 

"You mean, you want N-"

"No."

Still, you stand there for a second until closing the front door behind you after locking the top lock. It's the only one that allows you to close the door afterwards.

King's  barking can be heard long after you slide into the backseat of a black truck, and the only reason you aren't on guard is because you recognize their faces. Theirs, and the pleasant smile given to you by T'Challa on your left. 

"Um, hi," you say, laughing in embarrassment at your appearance. "I'm sorry I'm so...."

You don't even have your cell phone to use as a makeshift mirror, but you at least snatch your silk scarf from around your head and let your ponytail loose.

As always, he seems unfazed and poised, lifting a hand up to you to wave your concerns away. He calls you 'beautiful' again, and you can't help but swoon a little.  But still, you're confused,  even moreso as the car starts to move. 

"Where are we going?" you ask, laughing nervously. "Why is it a secret?"

"You figured it out, huh?" is his question, chuckling as well. "We'll continue this conversation a little bit farther from here. I'm sure you'll understand."

"Hm," you go, nodding. "I guess I do."

You think you know full well how aggro N'Jadaka gets in T'Challa's presence when you're around, and for that you still don't know why. As if you'd be that shallow. Besides, Shuri already let you know about her older brother's beau,  and you wouldn't dare infringe on that. 

T'Challa only assures you that everything will be fine, and leaves it at that for the majority of the ride. It's quiet, there isn't even any music on and that makes you a little bit uncomfortable the longer it drags on. Your mind is running a mile a minute wondering what he could possibly want to talk to you about, and why you had to be a few miles away from N'Jadaka for him to say it. 

By the time the truck pulls into the lot of that ritzy hotel that rich businessmen and other people of Importance stay in, the sun is peeking over the horizon. You're completely penniless, no wallet or cell phone or anything, and  you hope that this ends quickly less N'Jadaka thinks you've been kidnapped again. 

Wearing nothing but a oversized sweatshirt and shorts so short you look pantless, you timidly exit the car and rush into the hotel lobby with your head down. The last thing you need is to be seen by some weirdo paparazzi with a camera, a rumor waiting to happen if you're seen with the Black Panther himself. 

T'Challa is laughing at you when he catches up, joining you in the elevator as you pretend not to get increasingly more uncomfortable. This is probably the fanciest hotel you've ever been to, everything so shiny and gold, and you feel like you're not supposed to be here dressed like you're on a Walk of Shame. 

He presses the button for the 15th floor, already on the phone and giving orders about having breakfast brought to his suite and your greedy ass has to hide your stomach growling. The doors slide open with a  _ding_ and you're escorted a little ways away to 1503, where you don't expected to be greeted with what looks liek a whole apartment smushed into one 'room.'

It's massive, with a circular dining room table in the center of the floor. There's a living room area with a big flatscreen, and a couple doors off to the side where you assume the bedroom is. It looks like this room hasn't been touched save for the bag on the kitchen bar, so you have to ask how long he's going to be in town. 

Taking a seat on the other side of the table, T'Challa folds his hands together before saying, "I'm only here for a few days."

"You were in Wakanda last week, though, right? What made you come back so soon?"

Simply, he says, "You."

"Me?" You're afraid again.

"After N'Jadaka's 3-month stay I was surprised that," he trails off then, eyebrows furrowing as if struggling to find the right words. "-he was behaving so differently.."

He cuts himself off again, staring at you with a frown and you wonder why he can't seem to spit it out. You fidget uncomfortably, moving to brush hair behind your ears but you remember that you don't have twists or braids at the moment. 

Finally, T'Challa finds his voice again, and you listen intently. 

"How much do you really know about him?"

This question throws you for a loop, and you bite your lip as you think about an answer. Truthfully, you don't know much, only how he is now rather than how he used to be. The news reports about all the shit that went down happened about a year ago now, so it makes sense that none of them seem to have their guard completely down about N'Jadaka.

You shrug, letting out a long sigh because now that you think about it, you have nothing. 

"I just know he was in the military," you start, looking at the tablecloth. "That he graduated from MIT...Killmonger...he's your cousin, which makes him-"

"-Of royal blood," he finishes, staring you dead in the eye. "I feel you are trustworthy enough for me to tell you this; my sister feels like you are as well.."

And that's how it starts, how you're finally given the information that you were desperate for to begin with. Every tidbit that T'Challa knows about, every regret and every bit of anger he feels at the situation that created the monster that nearly destroyed Wakanda gets relayed to you in such a way that you're totally engrossed. He tells you about the hopelessness he'd felt after learning the truth in the way that he did, having to deal with being deceived and how much it complicated his perception of his own father. 

"I don't blame him for choosing to live here, instead," he says, more to himself than to you.

Breakfast arrives then, temporarily cutting off the story and giving you a chance to take it all in. As T'Challa gets up to retrieve it, you wonder why he's speaking in a way that sounds as if he expects you to be angry at him. You can tell he'd gone through it after realizing what his father had done, and you can't fathom what kind of impulse makes someone abandon a child in a way that could have guaranteed death for him. Was it guilt T'Challa's father felt at killing his own brother? You wonder if having N'Jadaka present would have been a constant reminder of that sin.

It was a selfish choice, no doubt, but you can't stop dwelling on the fact that his abandonment explains nearly all of N'Jadaka's tendencies to withdraw into himself. Someone having to fend for themselves for so long can only really turn out one way. 

Several plates are set in front of you, and you're already digging in with a happy thanks to the man in front of you. He continues where he left off without missing a beat, sounding so resentful that things had turned out the way that they did. That all of that rage and pain had nearly pushed N'Jadaka off the deep end; he'd been so consumed with the idea of harming those who harmed him that he was beyond reason and beyond logic and for that you have to agree mournfully. How do you help black people by murdering them on whims for your own personal revenge?

His plan lacked foresight and would've backfired terribly with only one slight variable had he been allowed to carry it out with no interference. You can't imagine a world where everyone had mini nukes essentially, turning it on each other over petty slights. It'd be chaos, anarchy, and everything would burn. He'd be as alone as he'd been at the start.

But he'd be King of the Ashes and you wonder if he'd be happy up there by himself. 

"Hm," you go, mouthful of the fluffiest eggs you've ever eaten. "Well, what happened then? How'd you get to where you are now? The two of you seem kind of cool at this point, so.."

Taking a sip of coffee (black, you grimace), T'Challa returns to folding his hands together again before looking thoughtfully at the ceiling tiles.

"Well," he starts. "Luckily for us, he didn't manage to burn  _all_ of our herbs and we were able to start the process of rebuilding our gardens."

"That's good!"

He laughs. "Yes, well, I made another decision recently that I feel upset a lot of my people."

You look to him questioningly, hoping you don't have egg on your face as he states simply that he'd chosen to give N'Jadaka one during the recent off-grid mission they'd handled together. You can definitely see why it's controversial, but he explains that he needed all the help that he could get, and that unity is more important now than ever. 

Still, you have to wonder what switched N'Jadaka's kill switch off when it comes to him and everyone else. It sounds like he'd nearly murdered Shuri as well and you frown at the thought. 

T'Challa regards you seriously again, which is funny considering he's spreading butter on toast in the most mundane way possible with the subject matter. "My intentions aren't to scare you away from him. And I'm not sure what changed his mind, other than the fact that I won the fight and nearly killed him."

"Did you stab him?" you ask, thinking back to the large scar on his chest, so different than the others.

"I did," he says. "He was willing to die rather than accept my help but I didn't listen to him. I think he expected to...rather than spend his days in a cell but that wouldn't solve the problem."

You nod. "So what'd you do?"

"Waited until he passed out."

At this, you start laughing, covering your mouth to hide the food you're still chewing, and luckily for you T'Challa cracks a smile as well. The two of you continue to eat in silence, all traces of apprehension gone. You feel as if you're talking to a close friend or a family member, and it's funny how he's a literal  _King_ and you're shooting the shit with him in some hotel room over breakfast. 

You have a question, though, all of the previous information running through your mind at once. "Well, did he stay a while? He doesn't seem the type to just turn around and be friends with you."

This makes T'Challa laugh, and he says, "He didn't stay, and I think the bulk of my people didn't object when he came back to America to lick his wounds. I think he resented, resents, me for saving him. He wanted to die in front of that sunset." 

"What?" Your eyebrows shoot straight up at this. 

"Killing me, burning Wakanda to the ground for what it did to him had to have been the motivation he used to keep going despite everything. Having that taken away left him with nothing, amd I won't lie to you and tell you that I hadn't considered letting him die up there. But I couldn't."

"Why?" you ask, voice so quiet you almost assume he didn't hear you. 

T'Challa shrugs ever so lightly and looks at a loss again, troubled. "I... didn't want to fail him in the way that my father did."

Humming, you take a long sip of water, training your eyes on your empty plate. It's a lot of things to take in, and you know that it'll be on your mind for another week. It's still not clear when you should try and talk to N'Jadaka about all this, if you ever will, and you're at a loss at what to do with all this information. You have to ask T'Challa why he felt he had to tell you all of this, and why now, and to this he gives you another uncertain shrug. 

"You're not like the other women he's entertained since he's come back."

"What?" How many times have you said that, you wonder. You're  nervous again, because T'Challa's smile is very nice. 

"I can tell," he says, amused. "You're having an effect on him that I've noticed. I don't mean to alarm you but you may be the first since everything's happened that stuck around. Every time I saw you I was surprised."

"Wow."

"Pleasantly, don't get me wrong," he corrects, raising a hand toward you. "I think you're good for him. Keeping track of his lovers has been, difficult, for me. I'm sure you know why."

You get it, you do. Someone that's such a wild card operating outside a previously closed-off nation with knowledge of so much sensitive intel can probably be a headache when said someone is a flirtatious playboy. You don't want to think about how many girls N'Jadaka's entertained before you. Hell, he'd been talking about throwing girls out after he'd met you and you have to wonder when it all stop.

Still, T'Challa's words are beginning to embarass you, and you think back to N'Jadaka saying what he said last night.  _That's my girl._

You have a feeling he's still dancing around something, though, and you urge him to spit it out with an insistent look and a goofy grin. "What is it, T'Challa?"

He leans back  in his chair, looking again at the ceiling instead of you and just like that you're anxious again. God, you're getting mood whiplash and it's been an hour.

Clearing his throat, he says, "I'm convinced you're who you say you are and so is my sister. My cousin is as well but his word isn't worth much in Wakanda at the moment, and I'm sure you understand why."

"I do."

"There is one person who is not yet convinced, and I'm afraid her opinion is one of importance."

With a meek voice and a beating heart, you ask, "Who?"

"The Queen Mother," he replies. " _My_ mother."

You're glad he felt the need to clarify, but it doesn't do anything but make your heart hammer faster in your chest.

 

* * *

 

 

The walk back up N'Jadaka's driveway is reminiscent of a condemned prisoner walking to their death and you're in the middle of a silent panic attack once you reach the front porch, unable to do anything but stand there like your brain is loading. 

You ultimately decide against ringing the doorbell or knocking, going instead to the garage pad and inputting the four digit code. You expect to find nothing inside but the usual, a rack of weights and other workout equipment, some mats and other garage essentials. King's old cage is still inside, waiting to be sold or picked up or dumped somewhere; and a massive bag of dry dog food you think. 

Instead, N'Jadaka's there, shining like he's covered in baby oil. He's in the middle of a sit up when you come into view, and he stops right as the garage door opens completely. It's too late for you to take off running, all of that Baddie Energy from last night gone with the wind. 

"Where the hell you been?" he snaps, standing up. 

"I was out," you lie, because you know he's going to feel some type of way about you hanging out with his cousin in a hotel downtown. "I forgot my phone."

"And your purse," he adds, still staring you down. "Don't lie to me, lil bit, you trash at it anyways. Where you been?"

His body is distracting you, obscene in the way sweat is literally dripping off him and you just move past and into the house without saying a word. You just have to get out of his line of sight for a second. 

King greets you as  you flop down on the couch, hopping on next to you until N'Jadaka whistles at him sharply. He's back on the floor in an instant. You let him on your couch sometimes, but it is very tiring to get black hairs off of the cushions every day.

You can feel N'Jadaka staring at you as he walks past, watching out of the corner of your eyes as he disappears into the kitchen. When he returns, he's just staring at you from the doorway, long and hard as he takes long gulps of water from a tall glass. Lying to him never works, so you sigh and get ready to spill it in the most innocent way possible. You know he trusts you, but a man like that can't do so completely. Not at first.

"I was with T'Challa," you say, flinching for some reason. "He wanted to talk to me, so we went to his hotel-"

At this statement, N'Jadaka's eyebrows jump and he starts toward you. You don't know why you hop up and run, zooming past him and up the stairs with the feeling of needles prickling up the back of your neck. You hate the sensation of being chased, and he  _is_ chasing you, albeit at a much slower pace. 

"I'm sorry!" you shriek when he finally corners you in the bathroom. "Don't be mad, we just talked. I promise."

He just rolls his eyes at you. "That nigga ain't  _that_ stupid to fuck with what's mine."

"So... you're not mad?" you ask, confused at his lack of dramatics. What the hell happened during his 3 months away from you? Before, he'd have lost his mind at the idea, having been so annoyed whenever you just smiled at T'Challa in his presence. Hell, he'd almost  _lost_ you with his petty theatrics after thinking you were flirting with his cousin. 

"No."

"Oh."

You're not convinced, because he keeps making this slight growl sound as he breaths in and out, like he's trying to calm himself down.

N'Jadaka tells you to get your 'goofy ass' in the shower, and you tell him that you're still a little sore from last night as he starts removing his own clothes. He has to stop prematurely, though, down to his underwear when the telltale sound of King sending his food bowl straight across the floor reaches the two of you. 

With an annoyed growl, he leaves you in the bathroom alone to go fuss at your dog, and you just stand in the mirror while T'Challa's parting words play in your mind like broken records. On and on it spins, the 'gifts' he'd bestowed upon you with the promise that you'd see him again soon.

The first, was that N'Jadaka missed you during those 3 months. 

The second; that the Queen Mother would like to meet you.

And finally, there's the third, and it's the most alarming. With a thoughtful sigh and a voice dripping with amusement he'd made a claim that N'Jadaka may love you, right before complimenting the shine and health of your hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have to be up for work at 4 am slkfs and it's almost 10 pm at the moment i'm writing this
> 
> 8 hours of sleep? don't know her


	23. east compton clovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love bring it on and this song
> 
> https://youtu.be/BdkLOJdgQ6o
> 
> (watch for the early 2000s ambiance lol its relevant to this chapter)

 

 

 

_-_

"How long are you gonna stare at me?"

Pausing your routine, you turn the ottoman you've been sitting on to address N'Jadaka in the doorway. He seems to be in a pissy mood that you didn't give him any in the shower, but you made it clear you were still sore from last night, but greedy men like him want what they want. Eventually you made him turn away from you, because if you're being honest washing yourself is probably the least sexy thing in the world.

You just  _know_ he was expecting some steamy slow motion view of you lathering soap all over yourself but that's for the girls on tv that don't use washcloths. 

The plan for Halloween is to meet up with your girls at around noon,  fully dressed in your costumes and just hang out around the city. You'd decided immediately that y'all weren't going to wait until the middle of the night to put on your costumes just to go to a dark club; you want to be seen and see everyone else. 

Besides, there are plenty of daytime activities taking place for adults as well and you'd rather be all the way indoors once the sun sets. People act crazy and it's a full moon tonight.

N'Jadaka is still staring you down when you go back to sifting through your makeup bag, line of sight directly on your cotton boyshorts as you stand up. You have to laugh when he steps up behind you, putting a hand around to your stomach and pressing your body to his. 

T'Challa's insistence that N'Jadaka loves you is still fresh in your mind and you let out a shaky sigh, suddenly very warm. You don't know why that makes you nervous, but it does,  and you gently bump him away with a forced giggle.

"Leave me alone!" you go, sitting back down. "Let me finish this."

It's hard to focus on anything with the way he's breathing behind you, or with the way he's looking at you with this predatory look on his face. Moreso than usual, ever since he came back from Wakanda and you wonder if it's because of what T'Challa told you earlier. Some kind of 'herb,' but you don't know what that means.

He growls, "Shit," in your ear and you have to put down your eyebrow gel to look over at him in surprise. 

"N....yo," you go, laughing incredulously. He sounds mad with desire. "You can't wait until tonight? I know it's good but...come on. Don't act like a nympho."

"I'm about to bend you over this goddamn counter," is all he says, eyes closed. He's doing that low 'hmm' sound in his chest every time he breaths in and when you hit him on the chest, alarmed, it's like he snaps back to reality. "My bad."

"What the hell-"

"You smell good," is all he says, looking down at you, puzzled. "Real good."

You frown, afraid to ask about the 'heart-shaped herbs' and their affects on those who consume them. T'Challa mentioned vaguely the panther goddess, and you wonder if there's some sort of animalistic side-effect to it's benefits. Because N'Jadaka hasn't asked about the nature of your conversation with his cousin, you haven't said, afraid he'll be upset that you know what happened to him. 

A part of you thinks he can tell, because you think that you see him differently and maybe he can sense that. That maybe he can see it in your eyes. 

It's hard not to melt when he presses his face into your neck, and hard to breathe when he pulls you so close into him you feel like you're floating. He's not the type to hug you like this, only coming close when he comes up behind you to grab your ass. It's sad as all hell, and considering how warm he is he could benefit from acting like he cares to touch you in non-sexual ways. Using your butt as a pillow doesn't count. 

His fingertips are dancing lightly up and down your sides, and you wrap your arms around his neck to keep from getting weak in the knees. It's like he smells something on you, something that's especially alluring to him like some weird Wakandan aphrodisiac. All you can do is pat his back awkwardly, trying your hardest to get dressed without him attached to you like this. 

Men.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time you're tapping body glitter onto your shoulders and cheeks,  N'Jadaka's completely changed his tune. He's back to how you know him, jealous, and insisting you don't leave his house without a jacket on. You refuse the North Face he hands you for the hundredth time,  making sure your 'Cheer Ponytails' are in place as he stares a hole in the side of your head.

Bring It On is probably one of your favorite films, and you have so many memories of you huddled in the dark at sleepovers watching it on VHS until the tape wore out. You and your girls  _had_ to learn all of the routines (from both teams), but the cheer uniforms were probably your favorite part. Unfortunately, the high school you went to decided turtlenecks and ugly pants were the way to go and the questionable fashion choices is why you never tried to be a cheerleader in reality.

But now, you get to be that and more if only for a day thanks to Sydney's mom and her sewing skills. The green uniform is screen accurate and the stitching is high quality; there's no way anything is popping or falling apart like a cheap costume store version. 

Who says Halloween has to stop being fun when you're grown?

After examining yourself in the circular mirror on the wall, you turn around to N'Jadaka with a smile. He doesn't look impressed with you at all.

"How do I look?"

You receive an indifferent snort as he turns his head back to the television in front of him. At least it isn't those stripper videos he likes so much. Still, his attitude gives you one and you walk right up to the back of the couch to tap him harshly on the shoulder. He pauses before giving you the meanest side-eye and you have to silently ask him who he's looking at like that.

"N, come on," you finally plead. "I'm gonna be done before it gets dark, and then...me and my friends are going to my place to watch horror movies all night and-"

"Are y'all 12?" he asks, scoffing.

"Nigga, fuck you," you shout, turning back to the mirror. You can hear him rise from the couch. "I was about to invite you to watch them with us but nevermind. You leave me for 3 months and this is how you act!"

You're not really upset at his indifferent attitude towards your plans, but you want him to think you are. He really needs to start acting like he actually likes you, and not only when you're separated by several thousand miles. There's a strong desire growing within you that just  _needs_ to blurt out the topics of T'Challa's impromptu talk with you but you know you can't.

"Well excuse me," he says as he appears behind you, turning you around to face him. "I'm not tryin' to do all that corny sleepover shit with you with those wack horror movies that ain't even scary."

You only let him kiss you once, not wanting to mess up your lipstick. 

"Yeah, I forget you know 'scary' better than anybody, Your Grace."

He frowns at your petty jab at his desired kingship before suddenly putting you on the spot in the worst way possible. Sydney and Kayla will be on their way soon but you don't know how you're going to get out of this situation that he's just created in a timely manner.

Simply, he asks, "What'd y'all talk about?"

And he doesn't even need to clarify because you know what he means, and you were dreading the moment ever since T'Challa dropped you off this morning. Desperately, you try and come up with an answer that will both satisfy him and get you off the hook without offending. His parents are off limit, not until he tells you about them himself, so you push the information to the back of your mind. 

"Well," we start, exhaling sharply. It's starting to get hot as you stand in front of the only living furnace in existence. "We talked about you."

You can see him visibly tense, all the muscles under his white tee shirt rippling as he does so. He looks on-guard, and you hate that he still feels the need to withdraw into himself around you.

"It sounded like he just wanted to know if I can be trusted not to run off at the mouth if you ever told me some deep secrets about Wakanda. You know...because you almost ..."

Now he's giving you  _that_ look, the one that makes you want to look anywhere but at his eyes. The one that makes you want to take off running because you're a bad liar and N'Jadaka is a master at unraveling someone with as little effort as possible. It's his game.

You just wish he would stop using his Aggro Military Killer tactics on  _you._

Unable to look anywhere else you train your eyes on the floor for a second, but he only lifts your chin up with a gentle hand, staring straight into your soul in the process.

"Look at me," he says, squinting. 

You're a little lost in his gaze, but you snap out of quickly and slap his hand away. "Stop using that shit on me!"

"What shit?"

"Ugh," you groan, rolling your eyes. "The worst part about it is you don't even  _know_ you're doing it to me. I'm not some tied-up lackey that snitched on a drug lord, fool, stop lookin' at me like it's a shake down!"

He just looks at you, blankly, before letting out this bark of a laugh and shaking his head at you. You know you watch too many movies but you  _also_ know he's probably done shit like that to someone before. According to his chest and arms, he's done a  _lot_ of shit so he can't blame you for coming up with these crazy scenarios in your mind. 

The doorbell rings, interrupting your little stare-down, and you dramatically turn away from him in a way that ensures your wand curled ponytails hit him right in the face. That, and your skirt lifts a bit as you do. 

He beats you to the door, though, opening it with a harsh swing that spooks the two cheerleaders standing on the front porch. Both Sydney and Kayla visibly shrink under his gaze for a second before looking past him and at you. It's funny watching them creep past N'Jadaka like he might eat them if they move too quickly, and when they attack you in a hug you can't help but notice that he's staring at their butts. 

He only smirks at you when you glare at him. 

The three of you look good as a unit, though, and you will admit that this idea was a million times better than your original; playboy bunnies. Kayla has on her best 2000s chic bandana with two low ponytails at the base of her neck, and Sydney has a big furry pompom around her single high ponytail. All three of you have on the plainest tennis shoes you own with those itchy, thick cotton socks that make you want to go around barefoot. 

You make N'Jadaka take a photo of the three of you, but he refuses to give you the phone back until you agree to take the jacket. He wants you to take King but you assure him you won't be out after dark. His behavior has your girls giggling and you sarcastically saying, "Thanks,  _father_ ," as you turn to leave. 

Kayla has to get the last word right before you close the door, shouting, "She means, 'thanks, daddy!'"

She cracks up when you elbow her, defending it with a simple truth: "What? He's fine as shit. If you won't call that nigga 'daddy,' don't think I won't."

"And don't think I won't stab you either," you say, snort-laughing at her.

 

-

 

The three of you end up at some rooftop bar party downtown, someone having seen your costumes and invited you up with the fattest grin on his face. You think that he's either the person who owns the club or someone of vague socialite importance like so many others in California. Sometimes, someone's just kind-of famous on the internet and that's enough.

It's windy as all hell, the gusts constantly blowing your skirt up whenever you so much as try and move, so you take to huddling on a couch with your friends to people watch and day drink. So far, it's pretty entertaining, and you feel like gossipy bitches every time one of you makes a snide comment about a poor guy that strikes out with a girl or some ill-conceived costume.

Right now, there's a girl dressed in full blue Avatar realness trying not to be too disgusted at the fact that the Pirate trying to talk to her probably reeks of beer.

As the three of you watch, Sydney nudges you, not taking her eyes off the spectacle in front of her. 

"So, what did Mr.Man have to say about the fact that he was 'working' for 3 months?"

You shrug, sipping your gross candy-themed drink through the straw. "I don't know. He's acting weird lately. I talked to his cousin earlier-"

"-You mean, my future baby daddy, the Black Panther?" she goes, nudging you again. Both you and Kayla have to laugh. 

"Sure," you continue. "He made it seem like Erik actually has feelings for me but I don't know. Every time there's a chance for him to act like it, he can't let go of that dumb ass macho shit. I don't know what he's so afraid of."

In actuality, you do, now having context for why he acts the way he does. He's probably not in the frame of mind to try and get attached to someone after losing everything he'd cared for, but you know for a fact that love isn't something you can consciously manipulate. Maybe he's trying to resist you, but something in you wants to believe that he's failing and that one day he'll admit it to himself. 

Kayla just waves your concern away with one hand and tells you that that's just how men are, before relating it to her coworker that she's been seeing on and off. 

"He does the same shit, too, babe," she says, crossing her legs. "Half the time I don't wanna be bothered but then he turns around and acts like a perfect gentleman and throws me for a whole loop."

"Can't relate to that 'perfect gentleman' thing," you admit, smirking into your glass. "This shit sucks--Excuse me, hun!"

As you're waving the waitress over, Sydney brings up the whole altercation with B and Kayla just shrieks from the right of you. You'd almost forgotten how you barely spoke of it to them afterwards, and the memory has you laughing as you order a watermelon margarita to replace the garbage you were previously drinking.

Kayla is nearly  _crying_ when she unlocks her phone, trying her damned hardest to show you the comment she left on one of B's photos that got her blocked on sight. 

You see the photo first, she's posing in a bathroom with some aviator sunglasses on, her cell phone conveniently placed to cover her mouth. Looking closely, though, it's very obvious her lips are swollen despite her efforts to hide it. 

Kayla's comment is the next screenshot, straight to the point.

_**kaybabey._**  damn...my bitch really gave you free lip fillers, huh. _  _bet you can't taste NOTHING_  

You don't even know what the sound is that comes out of your mouth but either way it's somewhat human. It was so cathartic to shut that girl up but it's even more freeing to laugh about it. N'Jadaka hadn't given you enough time to dwell on it, having immediately decided to blow your back out and make you forget your own name.

Your friends are just grinning at you as you sit in the middle of them and die laughing like you've never laughed before. You're laughing so hard you get weak, leaning on the back of the couch because you can't keep your head up anymore, and it all gets worse once Sydney gets a look at B's IG. 

She's the only one who hasn't been blocked yet and has full access to the comment sections of her post-album party photos. 

_**simplytraCey.**  lmaoooo its okay sis you don't have to hide it from us_

_**kimmy_delite** bet you won't sneak diss no damn more _

_**kevsimmons93**. i fux with you but you wouldn't catch me tryin' to fight a bitch that's with killmonger that nigga crazy _.  _know her ass gotta be too_

You don't necessarily care for being referred to as Killmonger's 'bitch' (a title that pops up many, many more times), but you just can't stop finding the amusement in this situation.  Not even when the drinks come; tall pink gorgeous things with juicy slices of watermelon perched on the glass. 

It's so sweet and tequila soaked that you have to pause after the first bite, the juice dripping down your chin in a way that attracts the eyes of several men lingering nearby.  You pretend not to notice them, instead relaying to your friends how your ex decided to show up at the party as well.

When you ask them if it makes you a bad person to want Devon's dick to fall off, they both say no, and that's what true friends are.

 

* * *

 

 

"Ummm....I thought he wasn't doing anything for Halloween."

"He wasn't," you say suspiciously, peering out of the backseat window of Kayla's car as she drives ever so closer to N'Jadaka's house. Your chill, happy, buzz is starting to wear off immediately as you gaze at the dozen or so cars lined up on the street. A major wave of deja vu hits you as the three of you exit the car, and you're half expecting to find B sitting in the living room holding King. Like Groundhog Day, it starts all over again for you.

Predictably, the door is unlocked when you try the knob, and you're greeted with the pumping bass of N'Jadaka's speakers blasting heavy west coast rap. It's loud as all hell, and there are people everywhere, sort of dressed in costumes that you can tell are half-assed for the sake of it. 

Eyes are on you and your girls as you move through the house, and you're no longer getting the comments on your ass because people know better, those instead being turned to the other two cheerleaders following you. 

It makes sense, you guess, although you catch a few guys staring at your short skirt on your way to the kitchen.

Your Capricious Lover is within, mixing drinks for a pirate and a crudely dressed Playboy Bunny, giving you a nod when he notices your presence.

"Hey," is all he says and you just raise an eyebrow at him.

"Hey," you repeat, frowning at your lack of invitation. Sydney and Kayla get distracted by the food platters on the kitchen island, leaving you to go over to the man of the house and beckon him closer with one finger. The Bunny rolls her eyes at you as you grab his attention, an action that you wholeheartedly return tenfold. She must be new around here.

N'Jadaka snickers at this interaction before cornering you in between the blender and the toaster oven. "Wassup."

"Um," you go, looking around. "What's this? I thought you weren't doing anything?"

"I ain't say that," he replies, shrugging. "I said I wasn't doing all that sleepover shit."

You purse your lips out even further, having had a game plan that didn't factor in all these people hanging around. So far, there's no B in sight, which lessens your irritation enough to the point you drop the complaints. 

He asks what you've been doing all day and you sigh about that rooftop party and the booze, all of which you could only take a few sips of because of its sugar content. You feel sick to your stomach at the idea of drinking any more, so you refuse the beer N'Jadaka tries to slide you. 

"Mm-mm," you go, putting a hand over your mouth. "No thanks. I need to eat something."

He just gives you a look, squinting ever so slightly before taking a swig of it himself. You look at him right back, afraid he's doing that Jedi mind trick again, until he jerks his head in the opposite direction. It reminds you of the way he silently told you to follow him back at the cookout. It's commanding, but you follow, shooting your greedy ass friends a look of confusion.

Grabbing your hand he leads you through the mingling people, nodding in recognition to the ones that greet him. The sight of you two together has a few cell phones out, and you don't know if you should pretend you don't see the photos being taken or smile. You don't do either, having noticed King in the backyard through the patio doors, and several people are talking at him through the screen to get some sort of reaction.

Mostly he looks confused, but you can hear some guys admiring his size and wondering if he'd be a good 'fighter.'

N'Jadaka has to pull you back after you try and go over there, telling you in his eloquent way that nobody cares to hear a lecture about the Horrors of DogFighting and its stigmas on the Pit Bull. Not from a cheerleader that smells like Chanel perfume.

The upper level of his house is silent, save for the quiet bumping in the distance and it's insane to you how far away the living room sounds from up here. It may be soundproof walls in every room, but there's no time to ponder because N'Jadaka has already pulled you into his bedroom. It's as pristine as it ever is, the only evidence of someone living here being the mini-fridge under the tv and the chains tossed haphazardly on his dresser. 

He should clean your apartment sometimes, it's always been hard for you to keep your bedroom from devolving into a mess of clothes.

Silently, you take a seat on his soft bed, gazing up at him expectantly as he drinks you up with his eyes. 

"What?" 

The desire all over his face seems to vanish and he just starts to pace, back and forth with his eyebrows furrowed. You don't like the way he's moving back and forth, reminiscent of a skulking predator, and you try not to visibly tense as you watch.

You repeat yourself. "What?"

"I called T today," he starts, and it takes you a second to realize who he's speaking of. It's funny that he has nicknames for both T'Challa and Shuri, despite the rocky history. "And...first thing I asked was who the fuck told him to run his goddamn mouth about my business?"

You knew this was coming, and you're already on your feet. "But-"

"You know damn well you can't lie for shit," he snaps, shrugging away from your touch. "And I don't appreciate you lyin' in my face like that."

"I wasn't lying," you say indignantly, because he has a lot of nerve. "I just didn't tell you everything because I knew you'd be mad."

And 'mad' he is, despite not looking it. This isn't his loud, roaring anger that burns down governments and topples structures to the ground. It's his quiet upset, where he doesn't appear to be anything but indifferent but you can tell by the shift in his walk and the tilting of his head. You don't like being in the middle of this, but you were glad T'Challa told you what he did despite him maybe overstepping his boundaries. 

You don't know if N'Jadaka even has the right to be as mad as he is, wanting so much from you but unwilling to give you the bare minimum and it's no one's fault that he's backed people into a corner. You're an objective viewpoint in this entire scenario, untouched from either parties' strong emotions and you just wanted an end to the stalemate. If someone wants you around you have a right to know what they've been doing, do you not?

Maybe you're just being selfish, too. 

Composing yourself, you say, "You wouldn't have told me if he didn't. And-and, what's wrong with hearing two sides?"

He isn't even looking at you, folding his arms and staring at the ceiling and you just move forward to push him so he'll stop. 

"Don't be mad at him! He wasn't trying to make you look evil or try to sway me against you. I still want to hear it from you, but I understand why he told me."

This gets you a look, finally, and you firmly hold his gaze with your own. Thinking of the conversation you had with him back during your first few nights at your new apartment, you place both hands firmly on the side of his face. Surprisingly, he doesn't scoff or shrug away, he just looks at you with those eyes of his flitting back and forth between your own. For a second he just looks really hurt, or ashamed, or something you can't quite figure out but as quick as it's there, it's gone. 

You don't know what's going on in that head of his, or what he thinks of you  _really._ You don't know if T'Challa really meant it when he mused that his aggressive cousin may love you, but you also think he's the best person to be able to tell. You can't tell if the way he looks at you when you're naked is indicative of how he feels about you clothed; with his eyes half-lidded and his lips forming words you don't understand in your ears. He looks at you like you're a queen.

But.

You wonder if he's been indulging all those people and all those women in the beginning to fill the hole left wide open from his plans being thwarted, and you wonder a little more if T'Challa feels guilt for saving him. It's the impression you got from your conversation with him but you find it interesting in that it seems like the guilt stems not from believing N'Jadaka really  _deserved_ to die but from T'Challa having stolen his life's ambition.

Would it be vain to assume he's found something to live for in you? Not  _for_ you in some Shakespearean form of the word but just in having something to keep his mind occupied and elevated. Talks with your therapist let you know about that little trick; that sometimes when you're at your lowest, even the most mundane things can be something to live for or to keep moving forward. Like knowing there's a movie you want to see, or having to feed your dog in the morning.

Fuck, have you caught feelings, and you don't think it's ever  _fully_ hit you like it has now. 

"N," you say, meaning every word that's about to come out of your mouth. "I'm not gonna let you get that low again. So, be mad at him if you want, but I'm glad he told me. I got you."

Your therapist helped you, and you're going to help him with the reminder that you still aren't  _his_ therapist and shouldn't be treated as such. She ( a bookish black woman named Maxine), could help him a lot but it's a stretch to assume you can get him to see her. She once told you with a laugh that sometimes these great 'epiphanies' can happen in the goofiest of times and for that you have to agree. 

You, dressed like a cheerleader from a 2000s movie, is fully having a Moment with your killer lover while a bunch of playboy bunnies and pirates and niggas dressed like ketchup bottles party downstairs. Life is crazy and you just start laughing.

It doesn't last long, because N'Jadaka attacks you with a hungry kiss, showing you real quick how much he doesn't give a shit about your glossy lipstick or your hair. 

He can't decide whether or not he wants to hold you or lay you down, lifting you up by the waist and moving toward the bed before changing his mind. You end up sitting harshly on his dresser, the entire thing rattling as you try and rip the shirt off of him. Your hands are moving so fast you can't focus on one task and you abandon your pursuit to focus on just holding the sides of his face. 

The party in the background is an entire afterthought now, both to you and the host, because he's too busy trying to figure out how your underwear are attached to the skirt itself. You're wearing another pair under that to save yourself the pain of the stiff fabric rubbing against you, and you stifle a laugh as he pulls away to suck his teeth angrily at you. 

You're not done kissing him yet, so you give him one simple request before yanking his face back to yours. 

"Pull 'em to the side."

There's something  _very_ erotic about having all of your clothes on during (in your case, minimal amounts), and you find that it doesn't take long for him to get you soaked with only one finger and some dirty words. And this is a quickie if you've ever seen one, him not even bothering to pull his pants all the way down (that and you think he doesn't want to be possibly caught with his pants around his ankles). 

You keep your arms around his neck, smile plastered to your face because you keep laughing at something or other, and your legs spread as far open as they can go. It's starting to hurt, how much you want him to just come on, but you're thwarted again when he seems to realize his dresser is too low for this to work. 

So you're up again, legs wrapped around his waist as he carries you to the bathroom with a hop in his step. Well, maybe not a hop, but he does seem very eager  to get you on that hard stone countertop. 

"Ouch!" you yelp, smacking the back of his head in retaliation. "You're too rough with me."

He just gives you that devilish grin again as he 's just rubbing his dick on you, coating himself with your evident arousal. "You should be used to this shit by now."

"But i'm n-" Your voice tapers off as he pushes in, abandoning all forms of speech to listen to him tell you to relax as he observes your twisted up face.

He's only half way in but you're wincing hard, the norm at this point, and you would love for your body to act like you aren't a virgin every time you sleep with him.

"I'm tryna hurry up, baby, you gotta relax."

You roll your eyes before saying, "Shut up, nigga, you know you can't treat me like those no-wall having ass girls you're used to."

" _Damn_!" 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as if!
> 
>  
> 
> flksfskjsf the most explicit scene ive ever written is coming soon.... im a dumb ass baby who's getting embarrassed thinking about it but hey gotta push myself right?


	24. i want a .... so i don't have to dream alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream lover, where are you....

 

* * *

 

The impromptu 'quickie' ends as fast as it begins, forcing you to think about the elephant in the room during your clean up. It's dead silent and uncomfortable now, and you both know that N'Jadaka only attacked you with his libido in an effort to distract you from your almost heart-to-heart.

Readjusting your skirt, you glance back at him through the mirror and he's been watching you close the entire time. You lock eyes and he looks away, mumbling something under his breath with an annoyed shake of his head.

"Um," you start, leaning against the doorway between the bathroom and his bedroom. "So...I'm gonna go..."

He gives you a flippant shrug.

"I can come back tonight, though, if-"

"Nah," he says, waving his hand in the air. "You got plans with your girls so go 'head. And you gotta work tomorrow, right. "

The two of you just stare at each other, him blankly and you, biting your lip. Both of you are dancing around the issue here but at this point you can't make him talk about it. You know he's scared to get close to anyone, and you are too! Dating a man like Devon was as beneficial to you as dating one of those soul-sucking demons from Harry Potter, and all it did was make you a pitiful, pining mess that craves validation from men.

And you're working on that part of you.

He needs to work on his, because you want to make  _this_  work and maybe that's the stubborn part of you you get from your father but it's true. 

When you care about someone, 'hurt' is apart of the package. You can either run from it or go all in; even with the risks.

Running through your mental planner, you only have two days before the weekend, a therapy session after work tomorrow and a half day Friday...but something tells you N'Jadaka may need a few more days after that.

"Did I kill your vibe?" you ask jokingly, smiling as you look down at your nails. 

He shakes his head when you glance up at him, but he does seem a little more guarded than he was before leading you upstairs. 

You go over to hug him, half expecting him to shrug you off or something but to your surprise those arms wrap themselves around your lower back. His hands are rough and that always makes you shiver.

"I think you should talk to T'Challa," you mumble into his shoulder. "Or.. I think you should talk to me."

He doesn't say anything.

"And..I think you should go downstairs because you left a whole lot of randoms alone with your shit."

This at least gets you a chuckle and a pat on the butt. In N'Jadaka language, you suppose that means he's not actually angry at you just brooding, so you accept it for now.

-

"So...we haven't seen your 'friend' lately."

"Mm."

Hot oil is bubbling in the deep fryer of your parents' kitchen, providing you with second degree burns and the heavy scent of fried chicken as it cooks. You've tried to remedy it by completely removing your nice new wig and leaving it upstairs, locked in your old bedroom, while you melt underneath one of your dad's old work jackets from when he lived in Philly. 

You're burning up, hot as hell, but you want chicken and your mother cheekily said you could only  get some if you helped her cook the rest. Lemon pepper coats the ones currently draining near the sink, and your mouth is just watering at the thought. 

An impromptu decision to let King run around your parents' huge backyard with Zeus led to you having a sort of heart-to-heart and you suppose it was a good thing to do. It's been a couple weeks since you've seen N'Jadaka, and you're well into November and thinking of Thanksgiving. 

You've been talking to him pretty regularly on the phone, having found he only converses with you if you call him now rather than texting, but you know he's just having a moment.

Work's been keeping you very busy and you haven't really had a chance to  _stop_ and relax lately, but luckily for you your boss has given you clearance to work from home whenever you want. It's a blessing and you almost cried when he came into your little cubicle space with his morning coffee, grinning at you before saying you seemed 'tired.'

You carefully pick the remaining wings out of the grease, transferring them to the waiting rack with all the finesse of a child but it's not your fault the shit pops all over the place. 

Your mom calls you 'gumpy' when you cover the fryer, and you give her a look because she has a lot of nerve calling  _you_ gumpy. It's an inherited trait.

"So where is he?" she asks, grinning at you. "Or did you break up?"

You join her at the table, sighing as you watch your dogs have a field day outside. "No, we're good...He's been working a lot and so have I, so.."

She nods, still looking at you in this funny way and you have to finally cave and ask her what's up. If there's something on your face that you haven't noticed. "What?"

"Don't 'what' me," she goes, laughing. "You the one breathing like you about to throw up."

It's true, but you've been doing a good job of keeping it under control just for the payoff. Truthfully, the greasy smell of the used oil has been getting to you, but you know it's worth it just for the delicious wings.  _And_ they're lemon pepper? You can't wait.

Assuring her you're good, you go to stand to make a plate but get hit with a small wave of vertigo that has you squeezing your eyes shut. It's been happening all week at work, and it's partly why you were planning on asking for time off before being allowed to work from home. You're just tired, and you haven't been sleeping very well lately either. 

"Hm," is all your mother says, snorting as she gets up to grab a to-go container for you. They're made of recyclable paper and cost so much more than the terrible-for-everything styrofoam, much to your dad's chagrin. 

She puts about six wings in the container before putting it into a plastic bag (defeating the purpose but it's still recyclable). Truthfully, you're not sure you even want to eat them tonight because now all you want is to get in the bed.

You apologize for having to jet so quickly, apologizing again to King because you feel like you're tossing him all over the place just for a backyard but he doesn't seem to mind one bit. He hardly looks at you, too busy running around in circles with Zeus to notice you getting ready to go. 

It's getting dark out, and your first thought is to call N'Jadaka once you're in your truck, turning the air on full blast despite it not being very warm out. Your mother watches you from the front door, as she always does, making sure you're safely in the car and driving off. It's something that always used to make you laugh, because what could possibly happen in between the moments of you getting inside your car and locking the door?

Sure, a hooded figure could run up on you but it's a rare thing in this neighborhood. There's a Watch and everything, and you see the night guard beginning his rounds as you pull out onto the main street. 

The call rings and rings and rings, finally picking up just as you're about to give up. 

"Hey."

You don't know why you're especially missing his voice right now but you are. 

"Hey," you repeat right back, letting out a sigh that he immediately picks up on. He asks you what's wrong, and you just click your tongue in response. A cat is crossing the street, forcing you to stop right in the middle , and you're happy that you're relatively alone out here because some assholes don't care to stop for the safe passage of strays. 

You let out another sigh, toying with the long wavy strands falling across your shoulders. It's some random wig from a website but it's proven soft and amazing on you, and you put both your friends and all your followers onto the shop once you got it.

"I don't know," you say, lifting your foot off the brake. "I don't feel good, I guess. I'm tired."

"You been workin'?"

"Yeah...But my boss says I can work from home whenever I want starting next week so that's good. Are you at home?"

"Yeah."

There's silence, you waiting for him to invite you over and him presumably doing something in his garage as all you hear is the sounds of weights clinking together. You tell him you can call back if he's working out, but he tells you that you're good as always. 

It's him who speaks first after another long bout of silence. 

"Call me when you get home, aight?"

"Okay."

"See you tomorrow."

"Okay.."

And he hangs up, leaving you alone with your frowned up face and a gross taste in your mouth that you can't get rid of. You always hate that, being fine and suddenly getting a leftover aftertaste from something you ate much earlier that takes you straight into near-vomit territory. 

However, you just keep on driving, expecting to see him tomorrow just like he said. You're a little irritated he didn't tell you to come over but at the same time there's no point in being. 

But still, you're ready to stop being scared so why can't he be?

 

* * *

 

 

_Dream lover, where are you_  
_With a love, oh, so true_  
_And the hand that I can hold  
_ _To feel you near as I grow old  -_

Last minute planning for the week affords you the random jumping of your Pandora station, having gone from The Temptations to Bobby Darin, giving you annoyingly appropriate lyrics that you try to ignore to stay out of your feelings. 

You're out of skips and your phone's across the room, so you are where you are at your new desk in the corner of your bedroom. Originally, you were going to put your Work Station in the living room but you feel so much safer in your bedroom with the door closed. It's a leftover preference from childhood, like refusing to sleep with the door open.

Humming along idly, you keep scribbling into your planner, marking appointments and deadlines with your chin resting on one hand. The bluetooth speaker, sitting in front of you, plays on. 

_"I want a dream lover, so I don't have to dream alone~"_ you sing, still half paying attention your eyes are so heavy. Your father is king of old tunes, and would routinely listen from anything from 60s Motown to what your mother jokingly called 'white jukebox music.' There's a memory you have of getting ready for school in ninth grade, avoiding your father's rank cologne as he tried to distract you from your freshman anxiety.

Sydney and Kayla weren't in any of your classes that first semester, nor did they share your lunch period, so you felt utterly alone. You were freaking out, and he put in some old CD and turned it all the way up to annoy you. It was this song, Dream Lover, and you still remember how off-key his singing was. It succeeded in making you laugh, and the song has been a pleasant surprise whenever you've happened to hear it. 

You stare at the empty space for tomorrow, Friday, wondering what you're going to input seeing as the entire rest of the month is full of scribbles and dates. You're still humming along as you draw spirals and random designs all over the month of November in your plain 24 month planner, wishing you had a 12 month. Thinking of too far ahead makes you anxious. 

_Someday, I don't know how_  
I hope she'll hear my plea  
Some way, I don't know how  
She'll bring her love to me  

With a final sigh you just write in 'errands' before shutting the book and sliding it closer to your newest buy; a desktop Mac that you've been struggling to justify for a long time. It's your early christmas present to yourself, and probably the only one you'll have for another couple years.

As you stretch, your bones pop and your legs feel like jelly, meaning you should've been in bed a long ass time ago. Once you flop into bed, your phone screen reads that it's almost midnight, and you groan at the sensation of your comforter all warm and cozy. You decide to let the song play on out, turning it on low rather than off to accompany you during your nightly IG scroll.

   _Dream lover, until then_  
I'll go to sleep and dream again  
That's the only thing to do  
Till all my lover's dreams come true -

There's tons of new comments and likes under your Halloween picture, it's somehow gotten popular without you realizing it, but you're too sleepy to pay any real attention. Your profile is public again, and you keep getting the random follow from N'Jadaka stalkers, but it's died down now that you and B had that altercation.

Truthfully, she's still on your mind sometimes whenever you go out alone, because she seems the type petty enough to try and jump you or something but at the same time you don't know. N'Jadaka seems pretty okay with murder, and I don't think she wants to test him. 

Even  _if_ he 'sponsored' her career.

You end up dozing off with music on your mind, having a stressful dream about running a Record Empire all by yourself. It's too real almost, and when you finally jerk awake at the sounds of pounding on the door you're happy for the interruption.

It's dead silent in your apartment, the music having long since stopped during the few hours you were out, and it takes you a few scary seconds to adjust to the world around you. The banging on the door continues, and you stumble out of bed and toward the front door in a blind panic because it's dark as hell and the tv isn't on. No one should be here at 3 in the morning, and you're so terrified you almost lock yourself back in your bedroom. 

Until you look into the peephole. 

With a roll of your eyes you unhook the chain and yank the door open, irritation written all over your face as you bark, "Why the hell are you banging on my door like you're the damn police?"

N'Jadaka pushes inside, eyes dark and trained at a point past you rather than on you. He doesn't say a word, just retreats into your bedroom like he owns the place, leaving you to close and lock up alone. 

When you join him, he's sitting on the edge of your bed, knee bouncing like he's on edge. 

"I've been out there for 45 minutes. Been callin' you longer than that."

"What?" you go, folding your arms and leaning against the door frame. "Why?"

"Whatchu think?" he snaps, looking at you only to angrily look away when you frown. "My bad."

You don't say anything, just continuing to watch him in your Night Gear; an oversized shirt with holes all in it, total granny panties, and a scarf on your head. If you'd known he was going to stop by you'd have made yourself look a little cute but you guess he's supposed to get used to you looking like this. 

After a bit you step closer to him hesitantly, because it seems like he's been away from you so much longer than a couple weeks. He's radiating so much negativity that you almost don't want to go over and stand in front of him. He's wearing nothing but a hoodie and sweatpants, and you can see a white patch poking out of his collar.

"What's this?" you ask, reaching out to touch it. He winces when you do so you instead go to handle the chain around his neck.

"Lifted a weight wrong."

That's unlike him, but now that you pay attention you see he's moving like he's sore, and you have to ask if he's been working out all night. He gives you an affirmative as you switch on your television, remarking how he'd thrown up like 3 times afterwards from the stress of it. 

Frowning with concern, you pull back your comforter before glancing over at him. "Don't do that."

He snorts, back to you still as he says, "It be like that sometimes, shorty. It's either this or killin', which one you want me to do."

"You're not serious so-"

"Oh i'm not serious?" He's still facing the other direction and all you see is his wide back in the black hoodie he stole back from you. You kick a leg out to nudge him in the back and he flinches again, grabbing your foot so fast and hard you nearly have a heart attack.

You squeak out an apology and wrestle to your feet, not realizing how hard he worked himself. If he feels this sore now you can't imagine how it's going to feel in the morning. You've got some mean muscle rub disguised as a body cream in your repertoire, though, and it smells minty and amazing without being too overbearing like most brands.

There's a subtle tingle to it without burn, but it definitely works wonders (as it should considering the 49.99 pricetag). He only asks for ice but you instruct him to take get shirtless and relax. That seems impossible at the moment, something is bothering him and he won't say, no matter how many times you ask him. 

Trying a different approach you propose a deal: 

"I'll massage this on you if you answer a question for me."

"Hm."

"Can you admit you missed me and that's why you couldn't wait until Cute Hours to come over? I look like someone's auntie right now. All I need is a cig and a pack of cards."

 It's not the real question you wanted to ask, but you only shot it out to lighten the mood. Something is bothering him badly, and you think it's why he's been away for so long. That in turn is bothering you, because you know it has everything to do with the conversation you almost had with him on Halloween. About his past and how you fit into his present.  

He's terrified. 

But you leave it at that, watching with amusement as he yanks his hoodie over his head. His tee shirt comes after that, and you get to see his pecs bounce as he does so; much to your delight. 

Now that he's shirtless you can see all of the other patches he's pasted to himself; there's two on his shoulder blades and one on his lower back in addition to the one slapped on his neck. Sometimes you forget how huge he is, and you can't imagine how much ugly work goes into maintaining his physique. You think you asked once, but all you got as an answer is that working out is a way he relieves stress. That it's always been an outlet for him when he wanted to be alone. 

As you crawl onto his back, you ask him about his diet when he's at home alone. Usually when he's with you, he's eating junk food or at least providing you with some. 

His shoulders bounce as he shrugs, his eyes apparently glued to Martin reruns on your tv. "Chicken, rice, shit like that. Meal prep."

"That sounds boring," you say, peeling off the Icy Hot patches. "You ever cook anything else?"

"Nah. Other than breakfast when i'm tryna please some spoiled ass chick that overthink everything."

You almost don't catch his dig at you but when you do you give him an 'accidental' push right on his lower back. It's going to hurt, but it'll help because there's got to be a million knots in the muscles rippling up and down his back. With each press of your fist he grunts but otherwise doesn't make you stop, and before long you're full-on giving him a pseudo deep tissue massage out of the goodness of your heart. 

Your eyelids are heavy again, and you're so sleepy, but still you keep idly pressing your balled fists into his shoulder blades. 

"I'm done," you say after a while, tossing the tube onto your desk. It lands with a clatter that shocks N'Jadaka awake, apparently spooking him well enough that he gets to his feet with a wild look in his eyes as he scans the room.

You wave from underneath your covers, having pulled them up to your nose. "It's me, relax."

It takes a second of you watching his heaving chest with a hand raised up for him to realize he isn't in a nightmare. Instead he's safe, with you, in your Full sized bed that struggles to hold the both of you within its boundaries because you didn't factor in his body when you bought it.

Truthfully you never expected him to stay over at your apartment very often.

Still, you scoot on over and allow him to take up most of the space on your soft mattress. Out of the goodness of your heart, of course.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes long after you, only emerging from the slumbering world after you've poured your second cup of coffee. Having no sort of adequate groceries in your kitchen you had to order breakfast from the onsite Cafe again, and his portion waits on the counter. 

It took an amazing bit of nerve to keep from eating it.

"Greedy ass," is all you hear as you try not to notice the look N'jadaka's giving you because maybe you took a bite out of his omelet. 

 "I'm sorry," you lie, turning back to the morning news. Usually you don't watch for very long, but you figured it couldn't kill you to check out the forecast and maybe see if there's  _something_ positive worth talking about in the world. Some overly buttoned up newscaster begins talking about a major company's shift toward clean energy and that makes you smile a bit before the entire program shifts to talking about the dangers of Child Predators.

Sighing, you go ahead and change the channel, settling instead on some half-assed daytime talk show you could care less about. You set your mug down on the coffee table, trying to ignore the sounds of N'Jadaka rummaging through your kitchen trying to find something he's too stubborn to ask. 

After the third cabinet slam you get to your feet and provide some assistance, handing him a glass from the dishwasher. He goes on to pour himself the last bit of orange juice that you have, remarking that he could've just drank from the carton if he knew how little you had. 

Scoffing, you lean against the bar. "Not in my house, you won't."

"Hm."

"Question."

"What."

Swiping hair behind your ears you give him an overly sweet smile before asking, "Since you're here, you wanna go run errands with me today? I need groceries and other random stuff."

He just looks you up and down a couple times before snorting, and you don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. 

"You goin' grocery shopping like that?"

"Excuse me?" 

You think you look cute today, so you have to assume he means you're too prettied up to just be going to the grocery store. While you're only wearing sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt that's been sloppily cropped by your own hand, you think it's IG Baddie levels of basic. It's your usual day-off look, and while you did take the extra time to put on makeup and do your hair just right, he has a lot of nerve calling you out. 

So instead you pull him closer by the shirt, or rather you pull yourself closer because you're too weak to move him, to say, "You haven't seen me in a couple weeks, so you'd better say I look nice or else I'll find somebody who will."

Of course you're teasing, but being cheeky with N'Jadaka is a game of Russian Roulette (ironically). He may tease you right back, or maybe he'll get mad and then try to pretend that he didn't. Right now, it's the latter, and he just rolls his eyes at you and goes back to eating. Frankly, you're sick of him making you feel awkward and you come to the conclusion that maybe you should just stop talking until he wants to. 

But that's stupid, and you break the rule about 10 minutes into your grocery shopping. The closest market to your apartment is a Whole Foods, and you've been doing a lot of your shopping there out of  location more than anything. It  _is_ a nice place all things considered, but sometimes you think you're paying for the ambiance.

That, and sometimes it's nice to support local farmers.

You can't tell N'Jadaka that, though, because every few seconds he's scoffing or cursing about something or other in the store. Whether it be the price of the honeycomb on the shelf you see or the white couple you pass that clearly thinks dressing like full time hobos is a fashion choice, you're sick of shushing him. You feel like a bitch ,though, but you can't stop giggling at the comments he's making about them looking like Woodstock rejects in his very colorful language. 

They're fussing at each other about the brand of some vegan sausage and you kind of let out a bark of a laugh that makes them turn and look at you. You think you saved face, though having managed to turn toward N'Jadaka quick enough to make it seem like you're laughing at him and not them. 

He's kind of chuckling at you as you usher him away, and you force the grocery list back into his hands as a distraction.

"Read these off for me," you say, grinning. "And be good."

"I ain't never that, Princess," is his reply from behind you. 

"God knows."

"I think you know, though."

You're shaking your head as you stare down at the beef section, trying to find something for dinner. The weather has since gotten cooler, and you've been craving something big and hearty like a beef stew. At first you wanted Oxtails but the next best thing is just the classic variant. You were going to take N'Jadaka some had he still been brooding away from you, but now that he's reappeared things will be easier. 

You consider yourself an okay cook but sometimes you want opinions that aren't your greedy friends. They eat anything.

Mulling over your options, you motion for him to come over. He must feel frisky or jealous because you get both arms around your front as he comes up behind you. It makes you laugh.

"Somebody checkin' me out?" you ask, flipping over the package of meat.

"Yeah and that nigga better watch his fuckin' eyes lookin' at you like that."

"How romantic," you muse sarcastically. "Look, how much can you eat? Should I get two packs or one?"

You feel his chin on the top of your head. "Oh you cookin' for me now?"

"Answer me."

"Two, you look like you can't cook beef for shit."

Now you're about to become a bickering couple in a grocery store, something that you were just laughing at. With a scoff you nudge him away from you, whirling around with both packs held out in front of you like you're going to hit him with them.

"What's that mean?" you snap.

"It means you goofy and you clumsy and you look like you can't make beef for shit. Bet you can't make it digestible."

"Bet I won't punch you in this store."

And that's how the longest shopping trip you've ever had happens, full of nothing but endless bickering and arguing over dumb shit that actually proves to lighten your mood by the time you're done with it all. Even he seems to be back to normal, but there's still the elephant in the room, looming on the edge of your vision every time you have a quiet moment to yourself. 

By the time you start cooking you only make it to the end of the cutting vegetables stage before N'Jadaka makes you sit down. All you did was get another wave of vertigo, feeling incredibly faint with a knife in one hand. He acts like you fell on it, and the speed in which he grabbed you scared you worse than the dizziness. 

You watch him from the couch, annoyed because now he's technically cooking for  _you,_ with both your legs up on the table.

His back is to you when he starts talking, but you're too distracted by the sounds of the beef chunks hitting the pan with a harsh sizzle. 

He repeats himself, pouring some cheap wine you bought into the pan as he does so. "You been gettin' dizzy like that a lot?"

"Yeah."

"And you ain't go to a doctor?"

"No? I'm just tired, that's all. I haven't been sleeping that good lately."

He just 'hms' at you, but leaves it at that. You don't know why he's acting so weird about it, dare you say he's worried, but you assure him that you're fine when he finally comes to sit next to you. He feels your forehead anyway.

Before you'd started to cook he left, presumably to go home because there's a duffel bag in your bedroom that tells you he doesn't plan on leaving for a few days. That's a little funny to you, because normally you're the one sleeping over at his place. His large-for-one-person house, that always seems so empty and cold to the point you always wonder if he's barely there when you aren't. 

Next to you, N'Jadaka does what all men do, shifting down in the seat to spread his legs all the way out. You move to the other end, using the opposite armrest as a pillow while you rudely put both legs on his lap. It's too quiet and those thoughts are swirling around in your head. When you asked your therapist what you should do, she'd only told you to stop running from the things on your mind.

That if they're important topics for your relationship, that they need to be addressed for the sake of said relationship. 

"Did you talk to T'Challa?" you ask, quietly, to give you an out if he doesn't hear you. Unfortunately he does.

"Yeah."

"What'd you say?"

"That he talk too fuckin' much," he goes, and you can hear the disdain in his voice. "I don't know what that nigga said to you but he ain't have a right to."

"I know, but-"

"-Tried to tell me how much he  _likes_ you and how you  _good for me_ and all that shit like I really give a fuck what he think-"

He sounds as if he's talking to himself more than anything but now that you've unlocked the metaphorical floodgates it just keeps coming. That word vomit that you had once has now infected N'Jadaka and it just  _comes._ He keeps switching languages as he's cursing the world out, and a part of you hates that you asked because he's gone from his normal cocky self to flat out unraveling in front of you. You're sitting up now as he fumes about 'them' trying to switch up on him and act like they care about him. He goes on about how he can just tell they pity him, that they can't possibly see him as more than some violent, American hood nigga that doesn't belong in their 'holy city.'

You just let him vent, wondering if it's safe to approach him like this. You've pressed yourself into the other side of the couch just to be safe. 

A moment of tense silence passes, interrupted only by him asking you what the most fucked up part of it is. You barely manage to whisper an inquiring word before he's chuckling to himself in disbelief. 

He says that he saw his father, spoke with him in the 'ancestral plane,' and you're confused yet relieved that you suppose there's valid proof of an afterlife but that's besides the point. He looks at you, frowning as he talks, and all you can look at is the way his bottom lip is trembling despite the fact that he's trying very hard to hide it.

"The way he was lookin' at me, ______, like he was  _disappointed_ in me or some shit-"

You have to cut him off now, moving closer on the couch to brush away the one tear that's managed to escape. You don't acknowledge it at all verbally, don't give a condescending  _awww_ or sweet nicknames, just keep your hand on his cheek. 

"He wasn't disappointed in you," you say timidly, still not wanting to overstep your boundaries. "I'm sure it was just the circumstances-"

"Those 'circumstances' made me like this so same goddamn difference."

He keeps wanting to keep that mask up but you don't know why; at this point, it's cracked and you've seen enough to realize that maybe N'Jadaka is still that lost little kid caught in the midst of a terrible mistake. His eyes are making you so sad, the way they keep flicking back and forth between yours as if he's expecting you to go ahead and prove that you pity him or hate him or will leave. 

Trying not to sound like a self help book you try and be as real as you can possibly be.

"You're not wrong, or broken or a disappointment. You are...a person who has made mistakes but you shouldn't let them define you. Same with your past. I'm a damn outsider in all this but honestly, all you can do is keep moving forward. If they want to try and make shit right, then let them. You can't blame a son for the sins of his father, and imma tell you right now that T'Challa doesn't pity you at  _all._ At least I never got that vibe from him when we talked."

You say the last part with a shrug, not knowing what else to say without seeming like you're being his therapist (detached), but you just want him to know it. Based on your talk with T'Challa he seems to be doing anything but pitying N'Jadaka. He seemed guilty, regretful, but there was no condescension on his part. If someone is willing to go halfway, why not meet them?

The entire time, N'Jadaka's been staring at you, and now that you're done talking you feel uncomfortable. You take your hand back, fiddling with a hangnail shyly and averting your eyes from his own to the shirt he's wearing. 

"You so damn corny," is all he says, and when you look up at him with the meanest face you can probably make, he leans his head back and out right cackles at you. 

He sounds like your irritating cousins whenever they get together and show each other meme videos on twitter. It's a hearty one, all things considered, and you  _do_ know that shit was really funny when you hear it but still. That capriciousness of his is showing again, but judging how quick he just switched up, maybe your efforts to cheer him up worked.

He waves away your silent concern by pulling you closer by the back of the neck. When you refuse to stop pouting he grins at you, but it leaves just as quickly as it comes, being replaced by soft kisses on your jaw. They're so light and soft they send tingles down your spine, with goosebumps springing up in waves down your arms. He's not the type to tell you how he feels, but he is the type to show you, and it has you wondering if this is him acknowledging all you just said. 

Jaw, neck, chest; those lips touch everything but your own, but you find that you can't really enjoy it. All you can focus on is the sound of the soup pot boiling over and the nausea in your stomach, and by the time you swallow hard to keep from vomiting N'Jadaka's telling you to make a doctor's appointment. 

"Okay, okay," you go, leaning into his touch again. "I'll go Monday."

"No, tomorrow," he says, trying to pull your sweatshirt up. 

"The only offices open tomorrow are urgent care places."

"Then that's where yo ass is goin'."

Sucking your teeth, you push off from him to go check the food. N'Jadaka is right on your heels, attaching himself to you as you go to stir the pot. At this point all it can do is simmer, and all of the vegetables you chopped up are combining with the broth in a way that has you almost drooling. It won't be ready for another hour or so, though, and that has you a little hurt.

Behind you, N'Jadaka makes a comment about your 'ass feeling fatter' and when you ask him what that means he goes on to palm both cheeks through your sweats to 'prove it.' 

He has you locked in place all of a sudden, and you replace the pot cover before turning the burner on 'low.' You almost want to laugh because you're trying to cook and the fool behind you is just groping you like he's trying to figure something out. Only him, a true expert, could figure out that your butt has somehow changed size without you noticing.

Especially since your pants all continue to fit. 

"It's thick season," you finally shoot, slapping his hands away and turning around. "We got an hour before this is done. What you wanna do?"

He steps closer to you, voice low as he says, "You."

"Me?"

"Yeah," and his eyebrows shoot up for a second. "You ain't ever had it like you about to get it tonight, though, baby." 

Actually, you wonder if  _this_ is his way of acknowledging all the things you'd said to him earlier. Does it make you a thot to prefer this method of showing appreciation rather than the standard way?

_'I appreciate the shit you was speaking, my beautiful Black Goddess, it was all facts. Please allow me to show you how down for you I am with a romp in the sheets.'_

Yeah, right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((michael liked one of my posts on IG i'm still screaming and bald bc my dumbass didn't even notice until i accidentally hit 'liked by' sfkldsj))
> 
>  
> 
> anyways, what do yall think is up with dear reader? She's probably just tired. Anyways, more steamy steam next time! But with 100 percent more intimacy to celebrate a milestone in emotional roadblocks being crossed :)


	25. p i l l o w t a l k

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shea Butter Baby from Creed 2 is the song of the hour.
> 
> Also, go watch Creed 2, now in theaters while I decide whether or not I want to make an Adonis fic

"I'm not burning my food over you."

 You speak with an amused smile at the eager man in front of you, already beginning to shed clothes despite the fact that you have not said what's going down. He watches you with that hypnotizing gaze as you straighten your bedroom up; pulling sheets taut and lighting a few candles to get rid of the food smell. 

Tossing a few clothes into the hamper in your closet you begin pulling off the sweats you've had on all day. You're fully aware of the effect your semi-nudity is having on the man behind you and you don't care, bending over a bit to search through your pajamas. 

To save space, the best thing you could do was insert some small three tiered drawer from Ikea into your closet for small things. Underwear, old tees, and shorts are stuffed into it because you deluded yourself into thinking you were going to be neat. 

You find a pink nightdress you'd forgotten about, and you're only able to sort of remember where it's from before a shadow looms over you. There's something about N'Jadaka's presence that can still unsettle you if he catches you off guard. It's something that happens only when he's behind you, or somewhere out of your line of sight and it's just as impressive as it is terrifying. 

He commands so much of the atmosphere, even when he isn't speaking, and it's a part of him you don't think you'll ever get used to. 

You feel the heat of his skin pressed to your back as he moves your hair off your shoulders, feeling something a little more Fire on the waistband of your wide-band panties. 

It's terrible to admit, but you think you're absolutely sick for the man, and you don't think you could ever resist his skin touching yours. The worst part about it all is his skill level; he's so damn good it's over before it really starts sometimes. He's barely broken a sweat and you're already out for the count, probably the reason why he can go 3 or more times before he's legitimately satisfied.

But by then, you're in pieces.

"An hour's not enough time," you lie, bringing your elbows up to vainly push him away. 

He pulls them back down, his voice purring in your ears. "So that's what we do, huh."

"What?" It's really hard to keep from turning around. 

"You just gon show me what's mine-," you let out a yelp when his hand harshly connects with your behind. "-But not let me have it?"

Smirking, you say, "I didn't tell you you couldn't have it. Why do you want it right now, though?"

He turns you around at this, backing you up against the closet doors. You don't know why you lift your nightgown to cover your exposed chest but you suppose it's a habit. Regardless, you don't want to give him any until he can say why.

He doesn't say anything, only biting those amazing lips of his as you teasingly bring the fabric down to show more of yourself. 

Still, it doesn't yield results as he's too distracted by your body, and his punishment is to watch you pull the nightgown over yourself. While it is covering you now, it's betraying the effects of his  touches earlier by the way your alert nipples are showing through the fabric.

You'd forgotten how much of a damn snitch silk is.

"C'mon, baby," he all but growls, pretending he isn't begging but you know he is. Those pleading hands of his are all over your hips, bunching the fabric and hiking it higher up your thighs. 

"No," you reply, still amused and smirking at this entire situation. You can see him getting frustrated at your teasing but you don't care. It's fun to be on the other side for once, and you take petty pleasure in it as you pull him closer.

With both palms holding his cheeks you ask him who you are. All of the nicknames he has for you, from the first to the most recent, you want to know.  "I'm your 'baby' tonight?"

You let him get close enough to attack your neck with maddeningly wet kisses, not really expecting a response. 

"You my baby every night."

"Why?" you go, denying him permission to touch you again. He exhales sharply, and you already know he's physically hurting he's so aroused. "Am I your baby because of my body?"

"Nah," he replies, those hands of his wandering all over you. "It ain't like that with you, lil bit, you know that."

Humming, you look thoughtfully to the ceiling. The fact that he's being 'good' in that he's only really coming at you when you let his face go is so funny you can't stand it.  You ask him what's it like with you, finding yourself grinning wide at his vocal frustrations.

"No other chick been around this long," he says, breathing all of that pent up desire right into your parted lips. "My name, my past, all that shit. They don't stick around this long. I ain't with all that corny shit but I appreciate what you said. Real shit."

"Real shit?" you repeat, to which he sucks his teeth in annoyance.

"You took time on a nigga."

"I  _did_ time, you mean," and this has him smirking at you despite the goofy insult that comes not even a second later. It sucks that half a year is apparently the longest he's been with anyone. You feel bad.

Those non-behaving fingers of his have already found their way into the waistband of your panties and they're around your ankles before you know it. There's no need to pretend; you're dripping by the time he's rubbing slow circles on you, trying not to get weak in the knees at his rough fingers.

With you watching him he takes back his hand only to make you see him lick all of you off his middle and forefingers. He's so nasty, and when you tell him this he only raises his eyebrows like it's common knowledge. 

You're done teasing, and now you just want it, and you make it no secret by the way you crash your lips onto his. It's a bit of a mess at first, the two of you pressed so firmly together it's hard to move, but it takes you almost no time at all to readjust. 

On the way over to your perfectly made up bed, you hit the button to your speaker, not wanting to do this in 'silence' so the neighbors won't hear. All they need to know is that you're listening to music now, but by the way N'Jadaka has you screaming sometimes it doesn't really matter. 

You wonder if he even remembers the things he'd just said to you not even five minutes ago, his eyes were so glazed over he looked like he'd smoked the holiest of blunts. They make you feel better about all this, at the very least, and you'll take it as a start. 

As he's flat out devouring your face you feel a little faint again, and you remedy this by pushing him as hard as you can so the both of you stumble clumsily to your mattress below. The impact of his huge body and the way the both of you just bounce makes you burst out laughing like  you've never laughed before. "Oh my god, I think my bed is broken."

Unbothered as always he shrugs his own sweatpants off, looking down at you with faux-concern. "Don't worry about that, I got it."

You're too busy laughing at the fact that your brand new bed is leaning heavy to the side in one corner to stop him from pulling you to the edge by the thighs. Feeling that ridiculous tongue of his on you is simultaneously the best and worst part of this, mostly because he's a bastard. 

He'll have you seizing, overstimulated and damn near crying but won't let up until  _he_ feels like you've had enough. There was a late night facetime conversation once where you warned him you were going to haul out and slap the shit out of the back of his head if he got you like that again. 

_You ain't doing shit to stop me and you know it._

And he's right, because he's staring you dead in the eyes as he slowly pushes the silk fabric of your nightgown up to your belly button. There are goosebumps all over your skin and you can't even look at him, training your eyes to the ceiling fan with a silent prayer that you don't wet up your sheets because you don't feel like doing laundry.

N'Jadaka makes a small noise in his throat like he's noticed something, and you lean up to see what's up. 

"You waxed for me, huh?" he asks, placing a single kiss to your dripping arousal.

"I don't wax for you, let's get that straight."

"Well you was a little stubbly last time. If I was one of them lame, bitch niggas I would've cared, but lucky for you-"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

He chuckles darkly at you, the vibrations shocking you into yanking your legs up. They're locked around his head and you've already lost this fight; there's no point in trying to act Mean to match his banter tonight, oh no. 

It's funny how much he talks, though, and you don't think you've ever had sex with him once where he didn't poke at you in some way to be funny. It's a hilarious contrast to Devon, who never spoke a word when the two of you were in bed together. Unless you count ' _turn over'_ or  _'i'm done'_ as pillowtalk. 

Yours and N'Jadaka's pillowtalk is basically bickering and it's 100% better in that it makes you feel more comfortable. It's fun.

All you can think about as N'Jadaka eats you like it's his last meal is that you've found yourself a hell of an upgrade. The bluetooth speaker on your desk is vibrating with the beat of some song you've never heard but already love, and you honestly can't wait for the loud ass commercial about Oil Changes or something to interrupt your pre-dinner dicking.

Your nails are raking through his dreads as your back arches so hard it hurts, but you wouldn't trade this feeling for anything else in the world. It's extreme, but men with tongues like his will have you signing over ownership of every single digit of your social security number. 

He tells you that your ass isn't 'the only thing that's fat,' and you almost lose it right there, whining at the premature end of that amazing head he was providing. You half expect him to say something about you bending over or riding him but instead he stands at the foot of the bed with a look that says 'get up.' And you do, now face-to-face with the very  _very_ noticeable bulge visible in his black underwear. 

When you look up at him curiously he only shrugs. 

"It's all you."

"Hm," you snort, annoyed that you didn't at least get to achieve some sort of orgasm before he attempts to choke you to death. He's gone from expecting no head from you to the opposite, not even caring now that you  can only really get about half of him in your mouth before having to use your hands. Obviously, that's fine for most men but not for N'Jadaka. No, he wants you to swallow it all, and you can't do that because you aren't a bitch with a snake's ability to unhinge your jaw.

You've only just gripped the waistband of his underwear before he's smacking your hands away with an annoyed huff.

"What?" you go, confused, but he isn't having it, forcing you backwards.

"Fuck it," he shoots, hastily climbing into bed with you. "That can wait, this shit is  _callin' me."_

And at that he gestures crudely between your legs, rubbing the length of his dick on you for lubrication. You just watch, biting your lip at the sight. He's not too girthy, but large enough to have you hurting if he's too hasty. Right now you don't care, though, and you reach a careful hand down to feel how soaked you are with your own touch. This apparently turns N'Jadaka on more than you expect, because for a second he just stares at you with those eyes of his clouded by desire. All it takes is one look up at you to let you know that he wants you to keep touching yourself.

"I'll tell you when to stop," he growls, watching your careful movements so intently you're afraid to 'disappoint.' Now you're shy, and a part of you is annoyed at yourself for even trying. You just want that hot to the touch piece of him to enter your person in some way soon. Foreplay is for those with patience.

And those who don't currently have delicious soup simmering on the stove. 

Your toes are curling you're so close, moving much slower than you usually do on account of your longer acrylics. It's been a minute since you've actually felt like masturbating, usually not being able to find much pleasure in it anymore,  but for some reason it's sending you. Closing your eyes, you're desperate to reach the climax N'Jadaka denied you by any means necessary at this point. 

"Stop."

"Oh, my fuckin-"

He tells you to stop being dramatic, pulling your hands away and holding them above your head. Hovering over you he's so close you can't see anything but brown skin and those lips as he speaks. 

"You want this shit?" he asks, teasing you by pushing in  _just_ the tip. It's enough to make you seize up in the most delicious way, wrapping your arms around his neck in an effort to pull him closer. "Nah, you don't want it."

His teasing ass pisses you off sometimes but that low octave he's hitting in his voice is amazing so you'll allow it. 

Puffing your cheeks out you manage to whisper that you  _do_ want it, and he's got you fucked up with the 'just the tip' shit. He grins and you see those dimples and that's almost enough to send you right there.

"If you wanted it so bad you wouldn't be runnin' from it all the time."

And at that he thrusts fully into you with a rough jerk of his hips, and you do just that. You run, hitching backwards with a whine that makes N'Jadaka laugh at you again. But he seems to have had enough of teasing you for now and  you get ready to have a meltdown because he's so.... _him_ and it drives you crazy. 

With every clap of his body to yours you see stars, wrapping your aching legs around his waist the best you can . He's making sure you don't go anywhere by planting both forearms on either side of your head, holding all of his weight there instead of on you. This, you appreciate, because he's heavy and hot and you'd rather not have to meet God with the knowledge that you suffocated to death mid-stroke.

His lips are on your ear, breath coming out in quick pants inbetween each vulgar comment about your body that slips out. Sometimes it's in English, sometimes it's in Xhosa, but either way it's not doing anything but making you sweat. 

"You shouldn't be this damn tight,still," he suddenly says, reducing his speed to that agonizingly slow pace you're so rarely afforded. " _Fuck."_

You don't know what to say, shifting underneath him to adjust. You suppose it's a good thing that you're 'tight,' but he always has to speak it like an insult whenever he's fucking you and now you're starting to wonder if it's getting on his nerves or something. So you ask, humming along to the song that's started on your phone. 

It's a stupid question, you guess, so he pulls out.

" _No,"_ you whine, trying to lift your hips to meet his in the middle. "I'll be quiet."

He has the nerve to say, "Good," which completely blows you and makes you remind him that all you have to do is close your legs and he's shit out of luck. He's played with you so much you don't even feel like cumming anymore, the urge having been delayed enough times to make him have to start you over again. When you make the mistake of telling him this, he does exactly what you hate. 

"Bet."

And suddenly your thighs are damn near touching your chest and he's filling you up more than he has since you started. Just as you predicted, a commercial cuts off the R&B music, and you're clawing the hell out of N'Jadaka's back with the sounds of a sale on tires. You know he probably doesn't care too much for your long coffin nails to be digging into him like this, but you can't help it. His thrusts are driving you straight to violence apparently, and he seems to get as sick of it as you are of being bent like a pretzel.

Laughing, he asks if you if it's too much and when you tell him that of  _course it fucking is,_ he  only laughs again. His voice lacks all of the abrasive cadence he normally uses when you sleep together, all of that macho  _'this is my shit'_ tone that makes you weak, and you're reminded of the way he was when you'd caught him in his living room in the middle of the night. Less like he's fucking you and more like something else, and those slow strokes where he's absolutely swimming in you make a return. 

 _This_ is the shit you need tonight, and it hasn't even been a minute and you feel close to unraveling. He seems to be, too, judging by the noises he's making in your ear. Your hands are rubbing up the back of his neck and head and his face is in your neck; a level of closeness the two of you haven't really had during since you've met. Usually he's  hovering above you, or behind you, never just lying on top of you and you feel as if you're going to just disappear into him. He's surrounding you on all sides, but you don't feel like you're being crushed or suffocated (yet), just taken in a way you haven't been before. 

You're calling him all sorts of 'babys' and sighing all sorts of 'fucks' despite the fact that your legs are dying from being wrapped around him like this. Right before you came into your bedroom, thinking of denying him, he'd told you you'd never had it like he was going to give it and was he ever right. He's not even going in hard like he usually does yet tears are streaming down your face  like they were the first time he got you in bed. 

Your toes are curling so hard you're afraid they'll break, but you keep on crying all the way through your long, agonizingly good climax. 

He follows you closely behind, his erratic grunting dictating that he's going to cum soon and you find it the strength to tell him to pull out. There's no time to explain why, other than that you don't feel like dealing with the clean up. He obliges all the same, lamenting that he wanted it to be all over your face like the heathen that he is. 

Looking down at you, his expression changes to one of slight concern and you have to roll your eyes at the sight of it. 

"Oh," he goes, figuring it out. "Stop that cryin' shit, makin' me think you in pain."

"I will be," you breath as he gets off you. "Because I'm not used to you."

He scoffs on his way to your bathroom, mumbling that you need to be by now, and your only response is that his 'bitch ass' needs to take it as a compliment that It was so good it drove you to tears. 

You hear that laugh again from the other room. "You right."

As he returns with a washcloth you tell him about your ruined nightgown, to which he gives you that smirk again. You get to take in all that is N'Jadaka's post-sex glory; the tousled hair and sheen of sweat all over those muscles is enough to make you want Round 2. 

But that can wait until after dinner. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Alone in the irritatingly white room of the irritatingly vacant office of your gynecologist, you listen to the ticking of the clock above you. There isn't enough money in the world to make you want to go to the local Urgent Care in your neighborhood, going by the reviews left on the internet about the resident 'doctor' being an undercover pervert. 

You'd managed to catch your gyno, a nice older woman named Dr. Ramirez, and she'd told you to come on in despite not normally taking walk-ins on the weekend. She's been your go-to since you were 18, and despite the fact that her office is now a ways away from your new apartment you have no desire to change doctors. 

You'd spilled everything, about your fatigue and your nausea in the most blase way because you see no reason as to why you should be here. N'Jadaka's irritating insistence over dinner last night had you waking up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to sit on those uncomfortable beds with the paper that's tearing beneath your butt. 

There's no signal for your phone in here, so you've been counting the specks on the ceiling tiles as Ramirez takes her sweet time with the cup of pee and bit of blood you were asked to provide. It smells like antiseptic and coffee, an odd combination that's making your empty stomach turn.

After the 50th time your eyes study the poster on the wall, the door clicks open to reveal your stout gynecologist, smiling at you a little too hard. She has some papers in her hand and a few other things that look like pamphlets and your mind goes straight to incurable sickness.  _Here are some treatment options._

Although you suppose she wouldn't be smiling if that were the case. 

"What?" you ask, shifting uncomfortably on the exam table. 

"Well," she starts, adjusting her glasses and smiling. Her turtleneck has a hole in the bottom of it. "I think I may know why you've been feeling sick."

"And?"

"You've been pregnant for around 5 weeks, I'd say. This is an estimate, of course but blood tests can kind of help us get in the ballpark of-"

She stops abruptly, probably because the look on your face reads nothing but pure, unadulterated terror. You don't know if you'll pass out or throw up or both, and for a second you're just stuck staring at the floor because she has to be fucking lying. 

"______?" she asks, bending to look at you. "Are you okay?"

There's an entire ocean of emotions rushing through your brain as she tries to talk you down from this metaphorical cliff you've perched ontop of, but  all you really feel is fear. You've never been this afraid in your life, the only other moment being when you'd had a pregnancy scare with Devon. You honestly thought he would kill you for a few moments. 

And that irrationality has you thinking of what N'Jadaka's reaction. 

But there's another irrational part to all of this, and when you vehemently deny the possibility of pregnancy, Ramirez only looks confused. To punctuate it, you reach into your purse and show her the half-empty packet of birth control pills to prove that you've been taking them every day since you'd switched a month ago. You can't be pregnant. 

Ramirez takes the foil packet from you, ready to open her mouth and say something but it seems like the words die in her throat. Soon, she looks afraid too, and before you can ask why she's out of the room in a panic. 

Now you're panicking, too, and if you felt like you could walk you'd be running to your car. The same few words keep playing in your mind:  _I'm not, I'm not, I'm not,_ and you refuse to think to what you were doing around 5 weeks ago. Your mascara is running down your face because it's cheap, and you resign yourself to the fact that 5 weeks ago is when N'Jadaka came back from overseas. 

When you  _definitely_ thought he was going to make your guts fall out.

When Ramirez comes back in you think you're finished crying, and the only evidence is that your face resembles a sad raccoon.

She looks scared out of her goddamn mind, and you don't even want to be here anymore because obviously you weren't pregnant until you walked into this office. You wait with bated breath for her to speak, watching in confusion as she leans forward to show you a full pack of pills compared to yours. 

The one in her left hand has all white pills, while the one in her right has all blue pills separated by a line of white for the last week. 

She begins by saying they are the same brand, and ends with an apology so pitiful you can't find it in you to be upset. She's a sweet woman, she really is, and you can only blame her mean-mugging lazy assistant at the desk outfront for not paying attention when Ramirez told her to throw  _those_ packs out a month ago. But she didn't listen, she paid no attention when her boss left that small box of defective-packs of all sugar pills on her desk with the strict orders to throw them out.

No, that bitch of an assistant who always rolls her eyes when told to get off the phone gave you one instead. And you, none the wiser because it was a New Brand, took it with a smile. You, having had no periods on your other brand because you took them back-to-back, were non the wiser when you'd missed it.

You, walking around drinking alcohol and coffee because the idea of pregnancy never crossed your mind. And why would it? Work conveniently had to put you through it, disguising your symptoms over those of Overworking. 

Clearly, you put too much trust in people who wear mickey-mouse scrubs and hooked acrylics with gaudy gems. 

Ramirez looks like her eyes are screaming  _'don't sue me i'm firing her'_ and you just kind of want to get kidnapped again. But by someone who's not a pussy and would actually take you out. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The entire scenario came to mind because both of the times I'd gotten birth control and refills it was given to me by the people sitting at the front desk after I was cleared to have it, not the gyno herself, so I just wondered if any negligent ass situations could ever happen without the gyno themselves knowing haha. Don't know how they do it at other offices, i've always gone to Planned Parenthood clinics so experiences may vary.)


	26. stuck with you

"Why are you scared about going to jail?" Is Kayla's first real question to you after you collapse on her couch; her house being the closest to Ramirez's office and therefore your first turn.

You don't feel like you're operating on this plane of existence, like you're floating through space in a way that isn't yourself. Your therapist called it 'dissociating' after you'd mentioned that sometimes you'd feel as if you were watching a movie of your life rather than living in it. And that's how you felt leaving the office, and how you felt ordering a decaf  coffee at a nearby shop, and how you currently feel in Kayla's living room on this Saturday morning.

She frowns at you, still in her pajamas, before repeating her earlier question.

You just sigh, "For punching the desk clerk at my gyno's office."

"Well damn," she says. "What'd you do that for?"

"I don't know! God, I just left and hauled out and socked her in her damn eye and my doctor ain't even stop me she fired her on the spot and I'm like two seconds from ending my shit-"

Kayla throws a pillow at you and it snaps you out of it long enough to let out another sigh. With a final swig of your decaf you hop up with your purse and stomp to her upstairs bathroom. You're still in denial, because there's no way you're pregnant and you refuse to believe God really played you like this. Maybe it was Loki or something; he's the trickster god of something, right? The entire situation seems petty enough to be a product of the whims of a meddling force.

You can hear your confused friend talking to you from downstairs as you unbox the pregnancy test you'd gotten from the drugstore. The irrational thoughts have you convinced that it won't truly be so until you see the little screen read Pregnant. Damn the fact you got both a blood and urine test by a licensed medical practitioner. Damn the fact that she told you to come back in a week. 

Damn everything to hell because you were  _just_ getting started on being content with yourself; alone. 

You tell Kayla you'll be done in a second when she finally comes upstairs to ask if you're on 'one,' watching the timer on your cell phone count down with your heart in your throat. There was a moment with Devon that played like this exact scenario; there wasn't any gross negligence from a nursing assistant just some drinks and a messy night in. You'd gotten a little nervous with a missed period and had tried to take a test in secret.

But he'd found the box and lost his mind and scared you half to death. You remember honestly thinking he was going to put his hands on you or have you turn up missing like so many crazy ass men are known to do. It was toward the end of your fucked up relationship and only a week later did you nearly burn his apartment down after catching him cheating. It was so cathartic to watch him freak out over his burned shoes and clothes because it served him right. 

And now, as you look down at the test that reads 'Pregnant,' all you can do is worry about N'Jadaka. He'd made it clear he wasn't trying to have any kids, and you were inclined to agree.

You just  _know_ he's choked women up before, he seems like the type. Or at least, did, but you're not entirely sure he's out of that Dark Place just yet. And even if he is, he can lapse back into it just as quickly judging by the way he was during his heroic rescue of you. 

"I'm coming in," Kayla suddenly says, pushing the door and peeking inside. Her eyes land straight on the box sitting on her sink and just like that, her face is lit up like the fourth of july. 

She comes in fully, now, putting both hands up to her face as she looks like she just won the Mega Millions lottery. You watch her get so excited but you just can't feel that energy yet; you need a little time to figure out what you want to do. Ramirez said you have options, and you need to make a decision very soon. 

Kayla finds no issue in picking up the pregnancy test (recapped), still smiling wide as she says, "Oh my god! Yay!"

Then she sees your face and she pauses. 

"-I mean...no?"

Truthfully, you're sick of crying but you don't think you've ever felt so riddled with anxiety before in your life and it is  _not_ letting up. You're afraid you aren't ready, and afraid that you've ruined this with your oblivious alcohol and caffeine consumption, but mostly you're afraid that should you decide you don't want to go through with this; that people will try and convince you otherwise.

Or worse, get angry and abandon you. 

You've seen this happen growing up to a girl named Jasmine. She'd lived a couple houses down from Sydney and had just started college when a broken condom put a halt on all that freshman year optimism. It was after school one day when you and Sydney saw the loud conclusion to the fight she'd had with her parents. 

In certain circles, especially the ignorance of the Old-Fashioned and small-minded, women and girls making their own choices with their own bodies is apparently the holiest of sins. Jasmine just wanted to finish college with no extra stress, but her parents wanted her to 'live with her fast-ass decision' and urged her to keep it. You don't really feel like you were as articulate with your thoughts then at only 13, but thinking back on it now you realize what you were trying to tell your parents later that night (they'd hilariously thought you were saying  **you**  were pregnant).

When you were 13, you felt bad for Jasmine because she got disowned and cried and cried and cried on the front porch until her boyfriend came. But now that you're grown you feel bad for Jasmine not just because of her being thrown out, but because her parents held that baby above her as a punishment for sex in probably the worst and most common guilt trip there is. 

Mostly you think, as you cry and cry like Jasmine did on that porch, that what you're most afraid of is N'Jadaka or your parents or your friends making the choice for you. 

It's yours to make, and that's whats so hard about it. 

 

* * *

 

 

You've about cried yourself dry of all bodily fluids by the time you make it home, and a part of you is thankful yet angry that you're alone. The apartment is too cold, and you stub your toe on something heavy in the dark as you try and turn the air down. 

Cursing and fussing up a storm, you let the leash go so your child of the pit bull persuasion can return to his favorite spot near the patio doors. Going to get King was easier than it should have been because your mother wasn't home. Only your father, asleep with Zeus on the couch next to him. You were prepared to maybe talk to your mom about it but him? Not yet. Maybe in a year.

Silently, you fill the water dish, only giving him half a bowl full of kibble because his greedy ass ate entirely too much at your parents'. He gives you lip for it, doing that half-indignant bark that you still don't know where he got it from.

"Whatever, King," you say, peeling off clothes on the way to your bedroom. The comforter is a mess, as is the blanket you normally have folded at the foot of the bed. N'Jadaka normally sleeps on the right side when he stays over so it's the space where all the destruction is coming from. His bag is still on the floor and you'd nearly broken you foot on his weights, so you know he's around town somewhere. 

Stripped down to just your underwear you go to your vanity mirror and just stare at yourself. First from the front and then from the side and you see no change. The little pamphlet in the stack that Ramirez gave you broke the sizing chart down very quickly. You won't see anything this soon. 

With a frustrated groan you collapse into bed, curling up with the covers over you. The sheets and the pillows smell like him, and you just sigh angrily into the fabric because the anticipation is killing you. You haven't talked to him all day, you're hungry, and you're in a Mood. 

Maybe his enhanced-ness via that herb will let him sense you're not in the mood to be joked with tonight.  But now that you're thinking of him you can't help but wonder if he could tell you were pregnant without realizing it. '5 weeks' could encapsulate the Halloween Party, and you remember how weird he was acting toward you that morning like he could smell something that even he didn't know. 

Or maybe you were ovulating, and the quickie later on was him not being able to resist like you were some fucked-up cat in heat.

The tv isn't on, the radio isn't playing, there's absolutely no sound in your apartment save for the noise King's making as he drinks from his waterbowl. It's beginning to drive you crazy, but you quickly feel bad for thinking so once your intuitive dog comes over to put his head over the edge of the bed closest to you. 

Zeus used to do the exact thing whenever you were especially sad or upset, and each time it just made you cry even harder because what did  you do to deserve dogs? They never question anything you do, or judge you for your decisions. They're perfect companions and soon he's just trying to eat the leftover M&Ms N'Jadaka left on the nightstand. 

Just as you shove them into the drawer away from him, you hear the front door click. King's attention is quickly drawn to the man of the hour while you do nothing but retreat back under the covers. There are various noises as N'Jadaka moves around the kitchen, and you hear the sound of the soup pot being dragged from the fridge to the stove for reheating. Sure enough, it's followed by the ticking of your gas stove to remind you that there is a  _lot_ of leftovers to eat. 

He calls your name, "Aye,_____," but you don't respond, now so nervous your stomach is starting to hurt. Instead, you just rock, feeling his presence once he stops dawdling and comes to check on you.

"______," he repeats, and you can tell from the direction of his voice that he's just in the doorway. "You good?"

"No."

"What's wrong."

You wait a few seconds. 

The bed (now fixed) dips as he sits on the edge of it, using a rough hand to try and pull the covers back from your face. It doesn't work and when he tries again you urge him to leave you alone. He doesn't, because you can still feel him sitting on the bed, so you take to whining pitifully below him. 

Nothing is happening the way it's supposed to and it's got you frustratingly close to a mental breakdown; you just hope that N'Jadaka's perceptiveness can tell him what to do next. His heightened intellect and other senses must be screaming about your butt because he sure finds a way to start rubbing it like it'll make you feel better.

It does. 

But that's besides the point, and you just curl further up into yourself, eyes screwed shut because you're so terrified to tell him.

When you finally emerge from your cocoon you immediately bury your face into his neck, wrapping your arms around him as tight as you can. He can tell something is wrong, and judging by the sound of his voice he must be increasingly going over bad scenarios in his head.

"Can you just rub my butt and be quiet?" you ask, not even joking for a second. He only tries to peel you off him, and it's not doing anything but hurting your sides. An unstoppable force meets and unmoveable object and you're forced to call for mercy. 

"You rough ass-"

"What's wrong," he repeats, staring you down so seriously. You hate when he does that, because it'll coerce you into confessing and you're too scared. So you start to cry, and you know for a fact your cry-face is ugly enough to inspire sympathy from those who see it. Sometimes seeming like a total charity case can work in your favor.

N'Jadaka doesn't make a joke about you like you expect, only flaring his nostrils dangerously as he lets out a deep exhale that lets you know he's expecting the worst to come out of your mouth. The worst part about it is that you can't even tell him that you haven't been groped or harassed or attacked by some man because you're too busy blubbering and crying. 

Ugly can't even begin to describe it; there's snot and wet tears running down your face all at once, your breathing coming and going in a way that's indicative of a panic attack. You haven't had one for a long time, but you're just so afraid of his reaction that all you can see is fear. You know he won't hurt you, you just have to believe it, but you flinch all the same when he raises a hand to wipe your face off. It hangs there, lingering in the air by your cheek until he just sighs and rubs the back of his head.

King is back now, wagging his tail and trying to get to you with his wet nose pressed into your leg. God, why can't you just say it? N'Jadaka isn't leaving you alone, using a paper towel from the kitchen to clean your face off. You don't like the way he's looking at you but it's familiar, much like the way his face was when you'd been dealing with the aftermath of your kidnapping. He seemed frustrated, not used to dealing with a situation that he couldn't fight or fuck or smooth talk his way out of. 

He calls you 'bae' as he's tiredly pleading with you to stop 'all that crying' and tell him what happened, but you can't even appreciate it because your brain is malfunctioning. 

For the hundredth time he goes, "Stop," and for the hundredth time you try and do it. Nodding, you use the palms of your hands to wipe away any remaining tears, creating huge smears of black from your mascara.

You hang your head, wishing you had more than your slightly askew wig to hide your face. It feels like you just took a hard reset to all of the stuff you'd gone through in therapy but you know the first thing to getting past this is to just fucking spit it out. The words repeat themselves in your mind like a mantra, and before you know it your breathing has slowed down to a healthy speed.

"Who was it?" N'Jadaka asks, lifting your head up with a hand under your chin. "Was it that bitch nigga that left you?"

You shake your head, although you suppose half the reason you're so afraid of  _his_ reaction is because of Devon's reaction to your pregnancy scare.

 "No," you say, finding your voice. "And  _I_ left him, nigga, not the other way around."

"Then what's wrong."

"You'll be mad if I say it," you say timidly, averting your eyes and putting them on your trembling fingers. You feel him tense under you, and you know he's expecting the worst. "Don't be mad."

He shrugs, making no promises. 

Just as you begin to open your mouth and whisper your confession, there's loud banging on your front door. It makes you flinch because N'Jadaka is right here, so it can only be your lovely friend Sydney. They're the only two that knock like they don't have any sense. 

You know why she's here, though, Kayla had to have told her that you're pregnant so you hop up before she can yell it through the door. N'Jadaka must have put the chain on the door so it catches hard when you try and swing it open. 

Sydney looks like she just rolled out the bed, wearing a pair of Uggs and a hoodie that's zipped wrong ontop of silk pajama shorts. Her hair is tied up with a scarf and she just screams  _BITCH_ at you from the crack in the door. 

You shush her harshly. "Shut up, Sydney, shut up! Erik is in here, don't you fuckin' dare."

"Oh!" she flinches, putting a hand over her mouth. "My bad. You ain't tell him yet?"

"I was about to!" The both of you are whispering back and forth like kids trading secrets, and you have to excuse yourself into the hallway to keep N'Jadaka from possibly hearing anything more. She reaches over to hug you, telling you that Kayla told her you aren't happy about the situation. She also tells you that they're here for you, as if you thought any different. 

Standing in the hallway in the middle of the night having a heart-to-heart with one of your best friends does in fact bring you back down to earth enough to actually not want to jump off the balcony. It reminds you that regardless of what you decide there will be at least  _two_ people that support your decisions. 

It has you gifting Sydney with a hefty tupperware bowl of stew for the efforts. You wave her off with a thankful smile, finally ready to address the elephant in the room; and N'Jadaka peering at you from the bedroom. 

He looks at you expectantly as you return, and you nervously grab the doorway to keep from fainting. 

You close your eyes and sigh, "Whoo, shit."

"What the fuck-"

"Ohhh my god," you go, all of that confidence gone. "Promise you won't be mad, promise?"

You can't see him because you refuse to open your eyes. Your stomach is tying itsself in knots and you're so damn tired that you just want to sleep but you can't until you tell him. 

"I went to the doctor," you start, eyes still wrenched shut. "And I took a blood test."

You hear him stand up, and at that you open your eyes just in time to see him stalk toward you. He's worried again and you can see it in his eyes when he puts a hand on your face. He thinks you're deathly ill or something else, and it's your fault for leading with 'blood test' along with your crying fit. 

He starts looking you over, poking and prodding your body until you just have to outright say it. "I'm pregnant, not sick! Goddamn! Stop examining me!"

A moment of silence passes before you realize what you said. "Fuck."

At that he steps back like your skin burned him, both eyebrows so far up they're almost in his hairline. "You  _what?!"_

"Don't be mad," you plead again, holding both your hands up toward him as if he's raised his. No, he's just staring at you with that shocked expression that's very unlike him to the point that you wish he'd stop it. 

"N-"

"You fuckin'  _what?!"_

 _"_ I-"

"I  _know_ you goddamn lyin'. What'd I tell you last time-"

"You said you wouldn't be mad!" you shout, interrupting him for once. "I didn't mean to get pregnant, I was taking my pills! She fucked me up and gave me all sugar pills it's  _not_ my fault!"

You're starting to freak out again, and hysterics is the last thing you need right about now. He must see that too and he just sighs, taking a step toward you. "Aight, chill, I'm not.. mad. Just...  _damn,_ baby, this type of shit  **would** happen to you."

To make it all worse, he starts chuckling like this is the funniest shit in the world but his eyes are showing something else. Honestly, you kind of think he's freaking out because he just turns away from you all of a sudden toward the door. 

"Where are you going?" you ask incredulously. Is he serious? 

"I'll be back," he shoots, already out of the door. It shuts hard, and you're left standing in the kitchen in your underwear wanting to fight. You don't know if he's about to go scream or work out endlessly in his garage or both, but he isn't the one that should be running screaming through the night. 

Ontop of all of this, you still have to somehow meet T'Challa's mother, and you don't even know how to breathe anymore. Wordlessly you just go to the stove, turning off the pot before it scorches. Suddenly you're starving like you've never eaten before in your life, and the first spoonful of soup comes straight out of the pot. 

You don't even care, because you made it, so there you stand  with a wooden spoon in one hand and a large piece of garlic bread in the other. All of that fear and confusion has turned straight to irritation and you aren't sure you won't sock N'Jadaka in the eye when he shows up again. 

You're scared, too, but he isn't the one to potentially have his body destroyed by a baby. That, or worse, should you decide to keep it. It took your cousin four tries to have a baby, and she was finally blessed with M after two miscarriages and a stillborn. It's all you've been thinking about, because you've drank and you've caffeinated and you've stressed this entire month like an oblivious little fool. 

You're going to catch a case if you ever see that desk clerk again.

 

* * *

 

 

It's 3 in the morning when you're jolted out of your sleep by a nightmare; the first anxiety dream you've had in months. There was just chaos all around you, environmentally, socially, politically-everything that could have possibly gone to shit did and you were sat in the middle of it all as your water broke. It was terrible and realistic and it has your stomach messed all the way up. 

You don't see him until after you come out of the bathroom, or rather you  _feel_ his presence, sitting in your desk chair with that lax slouch he has. The scary part about it all is that you don't even know if he was there when you rushed to the toilet. 

Shutting the door behind you you climb back into bed, curling into the ball you've been in for the past few hours because it's the only way to sort of rock yourself to sleep lately. Your mind is so busy you don't think your therapist is going to help you much, not with this one. 

N'Jadaka's voice cuts through the silence like a knife. 

"You good?"

God, are you sick of that question. You just give him an indeterminate noise in response followed by a threat to dot his eye if he doesn't leave you alone. Inevitably, you know what he'll do, because it's obvious. And just like that you feel your bed sink with the weight of his body as he gets in next to you. 

His hands find you under the covers, pulling you closer and forcing you to turn around and face him. You're livid, and you want him to know it, so you reach over to yank the chain to your lamp. 

"No, i'm not 'good,'" you say, answering his question from a few minutes ago. "I'm not good, i'm pregnant off some bullshit, N! You don't get to be freaked out about this more than me;  _you_ are  **not** the one who's been drinkin' and shit this entire time and-and-"

"Relax," he goes, grabbing your face. "Relax, relax-"

You just shake your head, trying not to shed any more tears over this; you don't even think you physically have any fluids left. 

You do anyway, of course, pitiful little dry sobs against N'Jadaka's chest as he sucks his teeth at you like the irritating little ass boy that he is.  He keeps his mouth shut all the same (like he should), just holding you for a while like you've wanted. Sometimes you just have to exist near someone without speaking or having sex or bickering back and forth. This, is nice, despite the fact he has on outside clothes in your bed. 

When you tell him to take his clothes off he surprisingly makes no suggestive joke at the idea; he does exactly that and of course your eyes are glued to his chest again. The only way you'd stop watching him take off shirts is if your eyes got removed from your person and even then..

He still hasn't said a word by the time you cut your lamp back off, bathing the both of you in darkness again. There's nothing in your bedroom that can be used as a light source save for the humidifier in the corner of your room. Usually you can't sleep without a tv on somewhere but lately you're finding yourself in the same place; curled up in the dark. 

After a bit you try and dispel the awkwardness with humor, opening your mouth and saying, "I'm sorry I trapped you."

He snorts in amusement. 

"You're stuck with me, now."

"Nah, lil bit, you stuck wit me," he finally says. "Let's get that shit settled right now."

"Men like you make me sick," you go, appreciating the heat he's providing for once. "But, really, N... I need you to talk to me about this. I don't know what to do."

You feel him shrug underneath you before he goes, "You do what you gotta do. That's it."

"That's it? But, do you  _want-"_

"It ain't about what I want,  . You need to stop all that 'tryin' to please everybody' shit."

At this you have to pause, because it is the most un-selfish thing you've ever heard him say, and when you tell him this he only implies that it's different with you. It's always different with you. You'd almost be touched but you can't find it in you to be anything but tired and annoyed because you don't think you'll ever figure this man out. It doesn't help that he adds that you're the only one who only irritates him 'sometimes.'

You can hear King snoring from the living room as you lay in contemplative silence; still trying to figure out if N'Jadaka is acting like he doesn't care or if he's as afraid as you are. You think he is, and you definitely think that it's going to be coming up in the next few days when he actually has time to think about what's happening. 

That, or he's secretly happy. He seems like the type, with how possessive he is over you. 

You wonder if this is going to cause any complications, though, because he's technically a prince and it's never a good look for them to have 'bastard' children. But then again, those are Game of Thrones rules, and you have no other frame of references to go by with this royalty shit. 

When you fall asleep again he only shakes you awake, ignoring your frustrated groan with a delayed response. 

"Either way," he says, voice rumbling in your ear. "Imma take care of you."

Smiling to yourself, you admit that you appreciate him saying that. You didn't doubt it for a second with how many times he's said he has you, but you also couldn't rule out the fact that he could've easily disappeared on you after finding out. 

Still, you feel a little bit at ease and reassured now, knowing that you'll at least be able to sleep a few more hours before your anxiety inevitably decides to wake you up again. N'Jadaka just has to ruin it by trying to slide his slick-ass fingers under your shirt.

"Are you serious?" you mumble, swatting his hands away. "This is why we in this situation you nympho!"

"What you gon' do, get Double Pregnant? Shit, the damage is already done. I might as well get some consolation pussy. "

"God, I can't fuckin' stand you."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not all that satisfied with this one lol i've finally hit a writers block
> 
> ((ffyi about the odd spelling errors every now and again; the only free time i have to write these are usually super late and i'm nearly falling asleep by the time i upload so i tend to miss grammar mistakes and typos easily lol))


	27. for my mind misgives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little shorter this time! a precursor, if you will

_[some vile consequence yet hanging in the stars.. ]_

 

The clock reads 5 in the morning when you arrive to your parents' house,  unable to sleep without telling someone  _something._ It's been a full week since the news of your pregnancy and nearly 11 hours since your doctor's appointment. 

And your first ultrasound. 

Ramirez was completely off with you in a way that she remained completely professional with you the entire time. It's weird, and you know she's scared you're going to sue her despite the fact that you and her both know that the fault is completely that desk clerk's. 

You had no idea, though, that the first ultrasound was conducted transvaginally as opposed to that standard stomach gel variant you thought of. It was uncomfortable, and Ramirez pretended not to laugh at you when you said 'ouch' but quickly changed her tune. This entire fuck-up has you annoyed not only because of the fact that you ended up pregnant, but because the friendly relationship you've developed with your gyno has reverted back to square one. 

At least for now. 

Your next appointment is in 5 weeks, just in time for Christmas.  _'Should you decide...'_

That just leaves you to stress all the way through Thanksgiving, which is coming in on you fast. It usually entails a busy few days at your parents' house, of course, full of good food and annoying relatives. N'Jadaka only told you he'd be 'busy' on Thanksgiving, but you know what that means. 

It has you thinking that maybe you should try cooking for your friends this time. Just a lowkey Thanksgiving for once; God knows you could use the quiet. 

The kitchen light is on when you get out of the car, letting you know that your mother is getting ready to make coffee. She's the only one that's up this early  for no reason and you've long since stopped questioning it. 

Come 8 AM she'll be knocked out  again. 

Rather than go to the front door and possibly alert your father, you go around to the back patio and knock (activating almost all of the motion lights in the process). You can see her through the thin kitchen curtains and she flinches at the sight of you. 

"God-AlMIGHTY," she hisses, moving to unlock the screen door. "The hell are you doin' out-"

"It's  _twins,_ ma!" you shout, cutting her off and pushing inside. "She said she saw  _two."_

Dressed in her finest silk head scarf and fluffiest robe, she just stares at you like you're speaking Mandarin, and then it just clicks. She suddenly chuckles, shaking her head and pulling another mug out of the cabinet. It's the one from your trip to Disneyland when you were 12, and the only mug you drink out of in the house. Decaf is on her, today.

"I knew your goofy ass was pregnant," she says, still laughing. "I was wondering how long it was gon' take you to tell me."

You just slide into the closest seat at the kitchen table, shaking your head at this sudden development. You've had ample time to think about your pregnancy this past week and you think that something is still missing from your thoughts. It'd only dawned on you on the way back from the ultrasound that you haven't told your parents yet and here you sit, nervously expecting your father to come down the stairs. 

The steps creak under the weight of something and you tense, ready to explain away why you're here so early. It's only Zeus, and he greets you with both paws in your lap like always. 

You pet him idly, mumbling, "Yeah, apparently T'Challa knew too..."

In hindsight, his smirking comment about your hair health makes sense, and you kind of want to fight him for not telling you what he meant. But then again, he clearly expects too much of you because you were the last to know. 

Your mother slides a mug of decaf (the only kind she drinks) in front of you and you reach for the bowl of sugar cubes. Sugar cubes and non-dairy creamer; a morning staple that has migrated to your own kitchen. You have vivid memories of your mother popping you in the fingers as a child because you'd always try and sneak sugar cubes and pop them like candy. It's a wonder your teeth didn't rot out of your mouth.

She takes the seat across from you, swirling a spoon around in her cup. 

"You tell your friend yet?" she asks, smirking at you. 

"I told him I was pregnant," you admit, looking down at your cup. "But not that the doctor saw twins, no. Not yet."

"And why not?"

You shrug, still staring at your delicious smelling coffee. Maybe vocalizing it will help this make sense. " I still keep bouncing back and forth between what I want to do and I really don't want to get his hopes up. Plus, I just feel like something bad will happen. I was so high strung this whole month and I just... I don't know."

"Well hell," she goes, leaning back in her chair. "You runnin' out of time to be confused. If you don't want it, don't have it."

You frown. "But what if I get rid of it..and then wish I didn't? Babies are cute...I've always wanted one  _eventually_. "

"Then keep it. Or get ya nasty ass back in the bed with that man."

"But-"

She just moves to stand up, remarking that you're making her want a 'damn drink' and at this you have to burst out laughing along with her. You don't know what the hell your brain is doing and you just have to laugh. On one hand, you don't see any inherent harm in deciding to  _wait,_ but on the other... Your anxiety brain is telling you that life is short and you may not be blessed to live long enough to 'try again eventually.'  Or that something else will happen to prevent you from getting pregnant again. 

You can halfway blame that way of thinking on your father (and Uncle Chris). They  _stayed_ with the whole 'do what you do when you can because tomorrow ain't promised to No body!' The shit gave you a hell of a complex when it comes to decision making but it is what it is. 

Damn.

Apparently your mother is done with you because she turns the conversation around to Thanksgiving. She's always been so flippantly casual about shit, in stark contrast to your father but refreshing all the same. She said what she said and didn't try to sway you in one direction either way and that's that on that. Now she's on about not feeling like cooking.

Sighing, you mention your idea of a mini-thanksgiving for your friends.

"Maybe i'll have it the night before," you add, draining the last of your coffee. "Then I can still come by here on the day of."

"You bringing your friend so your father can get on my last damn nerve again?"

You ask her what she means, giggling at her irritated facial expression and she only harshly blows air out of her nose. 

"If I gotta hear that fool complain about dreadlocks or chains one more gaht damn time I'm filing for divorce and askin' that man of yours if he got a brother."

"Mom!"

"What?" she says, raising an eyebrow at your incredulous laughter. "You think I had to hear this much noise when you was walkin' around here pitiful with Devon or whatever his name was? Hell no, because that nigga ain't do shit but smile and grin and fill his ass up with compliments.  Tell the truth and shame the devil, baby, because that should've been the  _first_ clue he was a bum.  _That's a nice cologne-_ if you don't-"

You honestly feel faint but she keeps going on and on and on about your father's cologne despite the fact that you're about to throw up from laughing. No sound is coming out you're cracking up so hard, and tears are beginning to pool in your eyes. 

And when it's time to leave she all but 'kicks you out,' telling you not to bring your goofy ass back until you know what you're doing, so she can know whether or not to start setting money aside for her hypothetical 'grandbaby.' If not, she's buying some charms for a pandora bracelet instead. 

She gives zero fucks, and you appreciate her not getting excited until she knows  _you_ are.

You kind of are, though.

-

It's 8 in the morning when you show up to N'Jadaka's house, missing his wide ass being in your bed in the mornings. That, and you want an opportunity to use that key he slid you before finally leaving your apartment. 

He's usually up by now, either watching tv or in the shower and sure enough, he's sprawled out on the couch when you come in. 

Giving you an aside glance he says, "Oh so we just comin' over unannounced now, though?"

"Yes," you reply without missing a beat. "Good morning."

He snorts, looking at the box of doughnuts in your hand. You only got 2, just to be good, and because they're covered in frosting and cereal. You're fully prepared to eat the both of them yourself if he deems them too Extra to eat, and you're secretly hoping he does.

There's food cooking, you can smell it, and your stomach growls loud enough for him to hear and laugh. 

"Shut up," you say, sitting next to him on the couch. "I thought you only made  breakfast to impress 'chicks who overthink everything.' Do I have to choke you?"

"I knew you was comin' over," he says. "And  _I_ was hungry. When you get so conceited?"

Ignoring his insult you ask how he could've known you were coming over and his reply is equally as scathing. 

"Because you always get 'bored' when you ain't workin' and come bug me at some point so-"

"So i'm bugging you."

"What the doctor say?"

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the nervous butterflies in your stomach by putting your head on his lap and closing your eyes. You can hear his stomach, and it's funny because he must be starving, but this stuff can only distract you from so much. 

He roughly moves one leg, jostling your head. "What the doctor say."

"It was just an ultrasound," you start, peering up at him. "I don't want anyone to get their hopes up. I just don't know, yet."

"What's that mean."

None of his questions ever sound like questions, and at this point you're trying to soften the blow by getting all in his face and pouting. He always sees through you when you try to be 'cute' and regards your attempts with his normal spiel; sucking his teeth and mushing your face away. He doesn't this time, only staring straight ahead at the reruns of Martin on in front of the both of you. 

It must be his favorite show.

With a flippant glance at you he mutters, "If you start cryin' again i'm kickin' you out."

"No you're not," you say, chin resting on his shoulder. "Anyway, I told my mom and I don't think she took me seriously.."

"About what."

Heaving a great sigh, you say, "That I feel like something bad might happen... My doctor saw..two..fetuses?"

Saying the last part with a tiny upward inflection you bite your lip and wait for some sort of reaction from him that doesn't make you feel too bad. N'Jadaka just 'hms' to himself, not taking his eyes off the television screen. For a minute you just stare at him, wondering where his reaction is. You thought you'd get more than this at the very least.

"N-"

"My hopes ain't up, just like you said," he goes, deadpan as ever. The small upturn of his lips is hard to ignore and before you know it he's just smiling. 

"Stop smiling. I'm not used to it."

He stops immediately, giving you a look, and you start laughing. He can be funny when he wants to be. 

Dropping the conversation for now you follow him silently into the kitchen, where you see the efforts of his early morning cooking. Clearly he expected you to come over, because he actually took the time to make turkey bacon for you. He may think it tastes like paper but you happen to enjoy it very much, one slice in each hand before anyone can even speak. 

Silent still, he sets a plate in front of you with another one of your favorites; breakfast tomatoes. He'd called you bougie when you brought them up once, and you just give him a goofy smile at the fact that he thought enough about it to bother cooking them. Predictably, he gets annoyed and turns away from you with a bitter, "Stop being corny."

Smiling wider, you say, "I didn't say anything. I'm not corny."

"You are," he says, sitting on the other side of the kitchen island. 

"I'm not."

"Yeah."

"You're in a good mood," you note, still smiling to annoy him. "Why you in a good mood? Is it because I actually remembered to put on lip gloss and i'm wearing leggings that make my ass look fat?"

He snorts. "That ass  _is_ fat."

"Thank you."

"Welcome."

You just start laughing again, unable to keep a straight face at this game he's playing with you. Usually you can't get him to entertain you when you're being annoying on purpose , but he's actually humoring you with his mean ass. 

As you eat, you scroll idly through your phone, trying to pretend you aren't noticing how every time you glance up N'Jadaka is staring at you. He's not even trying to pretend he isn't, smirking at you in a way that lets you know he's gotten his hopes up and complicated things. You know how some men get; they can swear up and down that they don't want kids but the second a slip up happens they get all proud, sticking their chests out a bit more. 

You've had a lot of sleepless nights to think about it the past week or so, bouncing back and forth in your mind like an endless game of tennis and you've reached a few conclusions. Having people that have all but said that they'd still support you if you decided to terminate got rid of the fear of abandonment should you go through with it.  _That_ made room for the idea of actually having a baby with no pressures, which in turn made you wonder how happy it'd make the man currently staring at you. 

Or how 'fine' it'd make him, to have something else to keep his mind occupied. You can't decide if that's selfish of you, exactly, but wanting to keep him (and maybe you) from dropping back into that dark place again is on your mind a lot these days. It's not your job to save him or anyone else, but what's the problem in  _trying_ to actively make someone else happy?

And so you've come to a conclusion, a thought's become victorious in your mind.

But the food is good and that's all that matters currently. 

 

-

 

When it's nightfall and you're in his bed, you find that you can't sleep as soundly as you thought you'd be able to. Now that you've made a decision to yourself, you thought the noise in your mind would cease. And while it has, you're still awake. 

Next to you, N'Jadaka is scrolling through his phone silently, and ever so often you peek over to see if he's fallen asleep. You didn't plan on sleeping over but he has a way of nearly throwing your back out so you haven't decided to drive home. 

Holding the sheets up to your chest you move to sit up, poking N'Jadaka in the side with one finger. He hates that, on account of your nails, but he can shut up because you'll do it if you want.

"What," he snaps, not taking his eyes off of the phone screen. It's so bright it's making him squint, and that's bugging you.

"Turn your brightness down."

"That's what you had to say?"

"Fine," you say, shrugging. "Go ahead and burn your eyes out, I don't care. I hope you go blind."

This makes him look at you for a second before going, "Damn."

You don't think you should have to insult him for him to pay you some attention,  _especially_ when you gave him slightly more-than-mediocre head half an hour ago. He almost killed you again, but at least he came.

"Okay, can we talk?" you huff,  turning fully toward him. It's freezing in his room, and being naked isn't helping. 

He shrugs, still staring at the phone. "Talk."

"Is this how you're gonna treat your baby mama, though?"

Still nothing but an eyebrow raise as he asks, "I don't know, do I have one?"

"Maybe."

Now he's looking at you, and you're nervous again because you've just given him an answer to what you've been dancing around for a couple weeks now. 

You're still scared, but for a different reason. Or rather, you're uneasy, and it's burying the slight tinge of excitement flickering inside you. Perhaps you'll feel better after the next ultrasound, when you've given Ramirez your answer. 

N'Jadaka sets his cell phone down on the nightstand and you take the chance to put your head on his chest in frustration. You're exhausted, actually, but can't get any rest and that isn't good for developing fetuses at all. As he puts his arm around your shoulders lazily, you spill everything about how you're currently feeling, with absolutely no desire to cry. 

Progress.

He seems to be listening to you ramble, not uttering a sound until you've finally closed your mouth but even then it isn't really relevant to what you've just said. 

"So you keepin' it, then?" he asks, sounding less flippant and more...something else. You've figured out his game, you think. He's trying so hard not to 'care' just in case he gets too attached and gets hurt or disappointed. It's the same with men like him it always is. But you think that maybe he should stop being so scared and learn to enjoy you. 

You close your eyes and shrug against him, replying, "I suppose I'm keeping 'them.' There's two, remember? If I didn't fuck it up with all that alcohol and coffee and stress."

"Hm," he says. "You sure?"

"I guess."

He asks you 'why' and you groan, sick of his weird existentialism. He's supposed to be like every other dude that knocks his fucking woman up; be hype about it and leave it at that. Run his mouth all over the damn place with his pride and his smirking and his- _him,_ and you get so frustrated that you sit straight up. 

"Because I want to!" you start, shaking him. "I. Want. To. Maybe that's enough. Maybe I don't need a goddamn reason to want to keep this baby past that I feel like doing so and I decided just now. I know it was a total birth control failure and I wasn't  _trying_ to have a damn baby and neither were you but I'm really sick of y'all looking at me like i'm going to break. Just because this wasn't planned doesn't mean it has to be a terrible mistake. Am I making sense?"

" _Maybe,"_ he says, imitating you in the pettiest way. "But..nah, I got you. I get it. You makin' sense."

"Hm," you go, smirking down at him. "You dig okay, baby."

"Get out."

He tries to push you out of bed and you're screaming with laughter, because you're corny and he can stop pretending he hates it if he wants to. 

 

 

 


	28. thank u next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not replying to each comment i get! I do read them all! They're what i look forward to haha

"On god if you don't turn that damn song off I'm-"

"Thank you, next!"

You completely ignore the complaining of the man in your living room because this is your apartment and you'll do as you damn well please. That includes playing  _thank u, next_ on repeat while you get ready for your mini-thanksgiving. Sydney and Kayla aren't around yet, probably on the hunt for alcohol to buy, and that's just as well because the food won't be ready for another few hours. 

Instead of the standard turkey you've opted for cornish hens, one for each of you, and a flurry of sides that are light enough that they'll keep you from having a million leftovers. You've been feeling tired again, and the idea of going to the Big Family Thanksgiving feast seems like you'll be climbing a mountain.

At this point most of the things you're making are simmering or baking so you just have to play the waiting game, but something is keeping you on your feet in the kitchen looking to stay busy. You've washed everything in the sink despite owning a dishwasher, and keep peeking into the oven to look at your chickens (it's your first time making whole ones like this).

Truthfully, you haven't noticed that the song has repeated several times but N'Jadaka can use his expensive, stupid little bluetooth earbuds if he wants peace. That, or leave and go get a bottle of caffeine-free coke like you've asked him to an hour ago.

He saunters over to you after you tell him this, grabbing you round the waist and pulling you flush against him. "Sit down before you fall out. You look tired."

"I guess," you mumble, refastening the foil on the medium pan of macaroni that sits on the countertop. It's still hot, and you're paranoid it's not going to taste like anything (like literally  _all_ of your auntie's macaroni). The only person that can make it and have it be cheesy, salty goodness is your dad.

You hum to the song as N'Jadaka pulls you from the kitchen, not wanting to do anything but go to sleep as you sink into the cushions.  _This_ is why you wanted to stay busy. The hours of missed sleep are catching up to you and you think that he can tell.

Football plays on the tv in front of you and it makes you yawn the second you look at it. A small nap may just be what you need to indulge in despite everything telling you to stay awake. 

"Aye," he suddenly says, finding the off button on your speaker. "Go in there and lay down, I got this."

"No, I'm good," you mutter, shaking your head. "Don't worry about it."

Like most times where you refuse his 'orders,' he gets a look on his face that screams a challenge. Only one thing typically comes after this, and you think it's funny that he thinks you in all your sweaty glory, want to get your back broken. All this, before a shower? You  _know_ you're a little ripe. All you've been doing since you got up was running around and sweating.

It shows on your face when you enter your bedroom, observing the shiny 'greasy' appearance of your cheeks and forehead. That paired with your eye bags and frumpy clothes make you look a tad bit out of it, maybe a little bit homeless. 

The problem you're finding, as you look through your drawers, is that you don't really know what to put on. Because it's just your friends you don't feel like putting on makeup, nor do you really want to put on any actual pants so you pull out the oversized sweatshirt again. 

On the way to the shower you nearly take yourself out trying to make sure you don't throw up on the rugs, feeling the results of that wave of nausea from earlier. N'Jadaka comes to check on you as your entire head is nearly in the toilet, and surprisingly offers no smart-mouthed quip at you. Maybe he can't find anything to say about you violently dry-heaving into the toilet bowl, or maybe he thinks it's horrifying how you sound like a cat coughing up a hairball but hey. It is what it is. 

He complains that you've been doing too much, and you suppose that you have, and it's that damn stubbornness you get from your father. Your mom would have sat down an entire four hours ago (when you dropped half of the noodles for the macaroni all over the floor and had to remake),  _not_ have gotten in the car to go find another box before the stores closed.

N'Jadaka hasn't even been here that long, maybe an hour or so, but you're sure he could tell you've been up since 3 AM by the look in your eyes. It's hard to sleep, maybe you need melatonin vitamins.

You feel a hand on your back as you reach up to flush, too dizzy to try and avoid all that disgusting splashback. Getting pink eye would be the icing on this shitty cake.

"If you leave this damn bedroom after you get out the shower you in trouble."

Scoffing, you reach over to turn the shower on. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he says, giving you that look you don't like. He always looks mean but all it takes is a subtle muscle twitch to make him look  _mean._ "Did you eat today?"

"No," you admit, humming to yourself. You hadn't even realized. "All the food I have was stuff that needed to be cooked."

He sucks his teeth at you in obvious frustration, watching you peel off your sweaty clothes to pull the shower door back open. God, do you wish there was a bathtub in here too. The only baths you've been able to take lately have been at N'Jadaka's house and he's weird about his tub despite hardly using it.

_Stop with all that colorful glitter shit if you not gon' clean the tub all the way out._

It's not your fault you get too tired cleaning that olympic ass swimming pool before all of the bath bomb particles are out. 

He goes to say something else in that rude tone of voice no doubt but you reach out a hand and ask for the zebra-patterned shower cap sitting on the sink before he can. Your hair is kind of a controlled mess at the moment; a messy bun that's straight in some places and waving up in others. A lot of hair didn't even make it into the ponytail holder but hell, you think it's nice and serviceable. 

"Can you see if King needs to pee or something?" you ask, peeking out of the shower for the last time. "Thank you."

Sure enough, you hear the front door slam halfway through your shower, making a mental note to ask N'Jadaka if he pays rent here to be slamming people's doors. You know you frustrate him sometimes, but the reasoning as to why is funnier than anything else. 

You think this is all very new to him, at least in recent years, trying to deal with the ups and downs of someone else's Person when you're sure he's used to not even sticking around this long. If you were like the other women he's been with, you're sure he'd have already been texting a new one. 

It makes you wonder, though, how many amazing and sweet girls he's ditched on a whim for a new prospect. How many hearts he's broken. That kind of sucks to think about, and it's still on your mind when you're out of the shower and oiling up. 

By the time N'Jadaka returns with King, you're caught red-handed in the kitchen trying to check on things and he snaps on you. 

"What'd I say?"

Now you're the one who's sucking her teeth, and you yank open the refrigerator door to grab a bottle of water. It'd be nice to have that Coke you've been craving, yet..

Not having caffeine has made you irritable as all hell. 

Ignoring him completely you make your way to the cabinet to try and find that bag of trail mix you're sure you had somewhere. You're not really feeling a plate of salad or macaroni right now, since it's the only two things done. N'Jadaka stands there like a guard, making sure you get what you're supposed to get and make it back into your bedroom. It's going to be dinner time soon and the thought of being in bed while your girls and N'Jadaka try and eat together is equal parts funny and  terrifying. 

Kayla seems to have an easier time getting along with him, being able to hold conversations at least, but Sydney is still walking around like she's afraid of him. You keep telling her he isn't going to snap and choke her if she looks him in the eye.

However, you kind of have a feeling that he'll disappear for a few hours only to conveniently reappear once your girls are on their way home. That's more like him. 

You only manage one sip of water before pulling a blanket over yourself and trying your hardest to sleep. The only sounds in your apartment are the quiet bubbling pots on the stove and the soft tv noises filtering in from the living room. Usually this is enough to have you knocked out but you just. Cannot. Rest.

It takes a full 20 or so minutes of nothing for you to finally cave and call N'Jadaka into your bedroom, pathetically asking him to help you. He does just that, although missing your point entirely as he sits on the bed next to you.  Usually when girls want guys to help them sleep in the most pitiful way, they want massages or kisses or to get hugged up on. 

_Not_ to have their legs spread at mach speed.

"Stop," you go, frowning. "That's not what I meant, nymp-"

"Quit callin' me that," he replies, nudging you. "I know how to put chicks to sleep, all you gotta do is let me. All I need is two fingers and two minutes."

This makes you snicker a bit as you roll onto your back to stretch your legs out. Several of your bones crack in the process.  "You're so  _dumb."_

The fact that he doesn't realize that any sexual favors he does right now would probably kill you is hilarious. Your body can't physically handle any orgasms right now and it'd probably take you straight to heaven. Literally.

A long stretch of silence passes, you closing your eyes yet not sleeping, and N'Jadaka probably staring at you. The rough palm of his hand finds its way under your sweatshirt anyways, resting itself  on the middle of your stomach rather than your waistband. 

He holds it there for a second, silently, while you wonder if he thinks you're asleep. But you're not asleep and you feel every twitch of his hand as he rubs it on your stomach in a way that makes you think he knows what he's doing. You let out a long, pent up sigh,  expelling about a week's worth of stress and exhaustion in the process. 

When he pulls his hand back you open one eye, frowning that he's stopped, but much of your view is quickly blocked by the way he leans forward to kiss you. Fully expecting one right on the lips, you're surprised when he 'tries' to gently kiss you on the cheek. He's so damn rough with everything he does, and it feels like he just half-heartedly headbutts you with the quick pressing of his lips to your cheek.

"Go to sleep," he orders, face still very close to yours. "If I catch you out this bed again you in trouble, like I said."

With that he gives you another rough ass kiss on the side of the head before standing and leaving the room, (once again) slamming the door. 

"He really think I won't knock him out for slamming my doors like that."

 

-

 

For the first time in a while it seems you sleep longer than an hour. You have a few dreams, some are good and some are unsettling, only waking up a couple times throughout. In your dreamy delirium you remember hearing laughing and the sounds of the tv up loud but other than that you knock back out.

The worst part about it all is that when you sleep this long you wake up feeling more exhausted than you started, like you're drugged and drunk and everything else and you're so  _hot._ You kick the blanket off you and groan, rolling over in your bed and trying to find something to bring you back to life. 

Sometimes you think about sleep paralysis and get freaked out, and you wonder if you're going through it currently because you cannot wake all the way up to save your soul. 

Panic is the last thing you need right now but luckily King's loud ass barks from somewhere outside the door and you jump right up. 

It's pitch black in your bedroom, not helping the panic, but you quickly scramble to turn the lamp on before going to check your phone. 

It reads 1:20 AM. 

"What the hell-  _N'Jadaka!"_

There's no way your friends are still around so you feel safe using his real name, but by the time you wobble into the living room you find it empty. All of your food is put away, and the kitchen is spotless. The only thing that greets you is King, wagging his tail and licking at your hands as they hang at your sides. You have to wonder what he barked at, and you're just getting more and more uneasy as you stand in your silent apartment. A part of you wonders if you're still dreaming, and you're about to freak the hell out.

You dial his number on your cell phone and wait, half expecting to get no answer since it's so late but it picks up on the fifth ring. 

"Hello?" says a happy, tipsy female voice. "Who is this?"

"Who the hell is this?" you shoot back, already aggressive through your shock. "Where's Erik?"

There's a  _lot_ of noise coming from the other end and it's beginning to give you a headache. Music, pounding bass and loud ass people vibrate in your eardrums and it has you wincing. 

"Huh?" says the voice. "Erik? Is this  _his_  phone? Wow. I didn't know that."

"Yes," you say, annoyed. "Where is he?"

There's a sound of scuffling, a male voice chastising the woman who answered for 'picking up random phones' and you're treated to  the sound of her whining about being a 'good Samaritan.' 

Soon, that voice replaces the one from before. "Hello?"

"God," you go, shaking your head. "Did he drop his damn phone somewhere? What-"

"Nah," says the man. And he kind of sounds familiar. You're thinking that maybe it's one of N'Jadaka's boys. "He went to the bathroom."

"And left his phone."

"I ain't that nigga's keeper, shit, it ain't like we in a club. He probably gon' catch 87 different attitudes that we even touched his shit, though. I ain't dyin' for a side piece so imma hang up."

"Side piece?" you go, frowning even harder. "I ain't a 'side' anything, and don't you fuckin' hang up on me."

There's silence, before he speaks again. 

"Who is this?"

Plainly, simply, you say your name and leave it at that. Drunk people get on your nerves. This gets you a noise of recognition before there's more commotion and the sounds of the speaker being manhandled. You have to pull the phone away from your ears again and by the time you replace it a voice you actually recognize starts to talk.

"Wassup," he says, all lax and uncaring.

You just start fussing, sounding like your mother in every sense of the word but you can't help it. You have an attitude that he let you sleep through dinner and didn't have the audacity to tell you your friends were there (you're kicking their asses too); you have an attitude that he left you alone to go to a party in the middle of the night; and you have an attitude that some dude thought you were a 'side piece.'

Now you're wondering if he actually has other women hanging around.

"No," he says, finally getting a word in. "We been through this, lil bit."

"Well-well, I-"

"Relax, relax. I'm on my way."

The phone goes 'click' right before you can open your mouth and you just stare at the screen as if it's going to somehow call him back itself. Still, getting riled up doesn't make any kinds of sense so you instead go to focus on your rumbling stomach.

Lately, or rather ever since your kidnapping, being alone has made you uneasy.  It gets worse this late at night, this nagging feeling that you have where you're expecting something awful. This anxiety has you on edge constantly and that doesn't spell anything good for your pregnancy but Lord above can you not help it. You suppose that's what you get for getting knocked up by a literal ex supervillain.

Why couldn't it have been someone else? Like one of the Avengers?

Although you'd still feel as if you'd have a target on your back. Even moreso.

As you reheat a massive plate in the microwave you impatiently drum your fingers along the counter top. Nothing you've made today is going to taste as good being heated up like this but God knows you don't have the patience to slowly reheat entire pots.

There's still a minute on the timer when you send a quick text to both of your big-headed friends.

> _Y'all are both dead to me for eating my food in my house without waking me up._

Surprisingly, you get a response from Kayla. 

**> _Hell we was hungry. And your high-strung ass needed the rest. We know you, bitch! You hardly ever sleep whenever you get stressed out and Eric said you looked like you were half dead._**

**_> He left when we got there anyways lol. So it was just us in there. Food was fire._ **

**_> You tryin to have a baby, right? Shut up and take that ass to sleep._ **

_> lol. it's 'Erik.'_

**_> That's such an ankh ass way to spell a name. CaN't SpElL iT lIkE tHe WhItE fOlK dO lEmMe UsE a K_ **

You laugh and take your steaming hot plate out of the microwave. For some reason you just want to fight him though, and you're too hot, so you throw you sweatshirt over your head and onto the closest barstool because something has you off. 

Maybe it's pregnancy hormones,and you haven't read enough about it all yet to know when exactly that stuff kicks in, but you really can't stop thinking about how irritated you are that you don't have any Coke. 

You must have asked N'Jadaka to go get you some a million times today but fuck what you say, you guess. 

King curls up on his dog bed, not paying you any kinds of attention as you stand in the kitchen in a cami and underwear stuffing your face with dressing with a frown on your face.

And that's how N'Jadaka finds you when he breaks in, because you know for sure you haven't had a key made for him yet. He raises his eyebrows at you for a second, making it no secret how he's checking you out before brandishing a bottle of caffeine free Coke.

"Thank you," you mumble, stabbing food harshly with your fork. "Where were you?"

"Mindin' my business," he goes, smirking. 

"Who was that girl that answered your phone?"

"A girl that answered my phone."

"Wh-"

He cuts you off with a look before saying, "Some chick Damian's messy ass is fuckin'. She act like a damn kid. I can't stand neither one of them."

Of course he knows someone named 'Damian,' but you leave everything alone and go back to aggressively eating your food half naked. This entire scene must be so funny to him because after a second of just watching you he starts snickering, and when you ask why he snatches your fork and starts picking off your plate. 

This nearly starts a civil war but he assures you that he hasn't eaten as if that's enough to justify why he can't make his own plate. You must say, though, you've outdone yourself on the meal and not a single thing tastes off or bland. 

It's a stark contrast to some of your aunt's food that's so salty you're afraid you're going to stroke out if you eat more than one bite. Speaking of which, it  _is_ technically Thanksgiving now so you suppose you're obligated to roll by your parents' later.

Only to grab all the pasta salad and desserts.

You forfeit the rest of your plate to N'Jadaka, not having the energy to do more than cuss him out like he stole something as you go to close the open patio blinds. You feel his eyes on you as you go, knowing that the boyshorts you have on are doing something to him. Men are very easily influenced, and you stifle a small giggle as he follows you to bed.

Rather than let him inside you stop right at the doorway, asking him who told him to leave that fork in the sink and the light on in the kitchen. He sucks his teeth at you and you laugh at the frustrated way he does what you want him to. 

It's funny because you don't think anyone else would have the 'balls' to order him around but you've been doing it from the start. You're not afraid of him, and maybe that's why he decided to keep you around. Capricious men like him tend to do things on a whim anyway, funny how those whims led to this.

Seeing as he has nothing with him but the clothes on his back, you're treated to the slow process of watching him disrobe as you bundle up under the covers. 

He's watching you watch him, probably having some pervy thought about your eyes zeroing in on his crotch but honestly you're just wondering why every man with muscles wears boxer-briefs with the thick waistbands. Briefs are for kids, boxers are fine you guess, but the inbetween is a blessing straight from the heavens above. You can't get  _this_ kind of detailed view when a guy wears baggy boxers.

You kind of get stuck staring at that print, half zoning out in the process and half objectifying him. It's hard to ignore, and now that you've stared it's all you can think about as he shoves you from the middle of the bed so he can fit.

Bitch.

"Why you get this little ass bed?" he complains as you kick him for pushing you. "This shit is stupid."

"Go home then, bitch," you go, hitting him with one of your decorative pillows. "I got this bed for  _me. You_ got your bed because you're a hoe who had to have somewhere to keep all your royal bedwarmers."

The both of you spend maybe a good 15 minutes bickering back and forth, half jokingly, but by the end of it he mushes the side of your head and asks you why you're so 'damn mean.'

"You're a bad influence," you reply, trying to move his arm off you. "Get off me, ugly."

"So now i'm ugly."

"YES."

This is all in good fun you suppose but on one hand you really wanna fight, this small bit of irritation still stewing in you from some random place that you can't figure out. It's just one of those Moods, and you laugh as you complain about wanting to beat him up for getting on your nerves. 

He tells you that you get on his, and you tell  _him_ that he's lucky he's fine or you would've kicked him out a long time ago.

"Thought I was ugly."

"You are," you insist, pointing to his ridiculous body. "But that's not."

"Yeah okay," he goes, grabbing a fat handful of your behind. "This ain't ugly neither. Can't say the same about that face, though."

Now that he's brought up your face you start pouting, because you've been breaking out something awful lately. You know it's a joke to bounce off yours, but now you get all insecure about the red marks dotting your skin. Just like that the game is ruined and it's funny how all it takes is one innocent jab. 

He sees the look on your face and rolls his eyes, smiling at your pitiful expression before reaching behind you to grab the tv remote. The brief silence reminds you that you're still very tired, and you decide that you were lying about him being ugly as you press yourself into his side. He tells you to stop being insecure with him, chastising you again for acting like you aren't 'fine as hell.'

"N," you finally mumble, staring at the ceiling. "Can you come with me to my next ultrasound?"

You hadn't invited him to the first because you weren't sure then if you were going to keep it, and asking for his company just makes everything seem more real. Tangible, more scary. 

"Yeah," he says after a bit, still surfing endlessly through channels. "I got you."

"Are you excited?"

"Hm."

You suppose it's a dumb question; you can't see him getting 'excited' ever, at least in the traditional sense. Maybe he is, but he'll never make it obvious. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps it all hasn't sunk in for him; because it definitely hasn't for you. You don't think it truly will until the next appointment; when you're buying baby books and doing research and looking up names.

 Contemplative silence passes between the two of you, with you trying to quell the anxiety bubbling in the pit of your stomach. This is all normal to feel, says your therapist, but you hate it all the same. Especially since that nagging feeling of something bad happening won't leave you alone. When is it ever a valid gut feeling?

Twins are inherently a bit more high risk than single pregnancies, and this is your first. The women in your family are fertile and you're just happy that you didn't come out the gate with triplets or something. 

With a sigh, you say, "I don't know how I'm going to push out twins if they both got big ass heads like you."

"You get on my damn nerves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter has some emotional exploration on behalf of one King Killmonger stay tuned


	29. diamond life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sade (1984)

 

"Where'd you go when you found out I was pregnant?"

It's a question that's been buzzing around in your mind for days, and you find it's often there to bug you when you have nothing else to focus on. When N'Jadaka left you that day you hadn't heard him screaming or destroying things (or crying), so you can only wonder in amusement what he did.

Besides, it's the only thing that you can use as a distraction as you sit in the waiting room of the doctor's office, trying your hardest not to succumb to your anxiety. Your knee won't stop bouncing and your hands are shaking as they grip the handles of your purse, and N'Jadaka just sits like he could care less.

No, that's a lie, because he seems very rigid now that you actually think about it, flexing his hands on the armrests rhythmically. Open, shut,open, shut, over and over again. He's nervous, or something, but not more than you because you feel like you're going to puke again.

"Answer me," you whisper, grabbing hold of his denim-covered arm. "Say something, please. Distract me, oh God, I hate doctor's offices."

"Parking lot," he says, finally answering your question. "Sat in my car, did some laps, thought about some shit.... told T I wasn't goin' on no more long ass missions for a while."

The fact that he called T'Challa is really funny to you, especially with what follows.

"That nigga said he knew why I was callin'. I should break his damn ankles for keepin' that shit a secret. Said it was 'obvious.'"

"It kind of was," you say, smiling. "Apparently. I didn't know either, so don't feel bad."

The both of you share a chuckle, surprisingly, before tapering off into silence again. The ticking of the clock and the smell of copy paper and coffee are all that accompanies you in the small grey room. Normally you find office settings strangely relaxing, but there's something about the underlying scent of alcohol, sterility, that make you want to take off running.

After a bit, you press your cheek into his arm, staring at your nails restlessly. "I know it's not really  _you_ to be all you know, and I'm not asking you to be 'corny' but I do want you to be real with me. Can you do that?"

"I stay real wit' you, though."

"You stay quiet with me," you shoot back, peeking over to see if your makeup has rubbed off on his jacket. "I get you, I think. Not everyone talks about every single thing that passes through their minds, but sometimes I gotta hear you say shit. You're stuck with me now, you may as well. Even if it's one-word answers."

He just huffs, sinking down farther down into his chair before opening his mouth to speak once more. "I don't know what else you want me to say, girl, damn. I got you, with or without them. I mean, I ain't  _want_ no kids at first but at the end of the day imma take care of mines and imma take care of you. MY kids growin' up with a father. Period."

"Periodt?"

"Shut up," he goes, rolling his eyes. "You talk too much."

"You shut up. My therapist said I should communicate more."

"That 'therapist' ain't shit if she think yo problem is not talking  _enough_."

Just as you suck your teeth at him the door opens and Ramirez comes out, seeming less rigid and nervous around you and more excited. You're relieved that she isn't afraid of losing her license anymore because her energy was stressing you out. Punching her ex receptionist was enough of a cathartic release to you and you have no desire to do anything else. 

Pushing up her glasses she goes, "10 weeks! Yay! Well, 10 and and some change."

It's always funny when doctors get hype about babies but you suppose it's good for her to be when you've said that you wanted to go through with it. Especially for first-timers like yourself. As you follow her into the back hall, she's already babbling about the ultrasound and what baby books she recommends and the sites, the blogs, the pamphlets, everything. 

She stops when she turns to see the look on your face, probably as overwhelmed as you're feeling on the inside.

With a giggly apology she introduces herself to N'Jadaka, who only puts on his normal faux-friendly grin before watching you get on the table. For ease of access you've put on the loosest t-shirt you own over a pair of sweatpants. Last time your form-fitting jeans and baby tee led to a lot of wrestling with yourself as  you tried to pull them down. 

"Relax, dear," Ramirez says as she's getting prepped. "This one is probably the one you've seen on tv; no pain."

"Okay," you whisper, still staring straight at the ceiling. She doesn't even  _know_ how much you hate medical situations. 

When the needle comes out toward your arm you flinch, too busy looking anywhere else to notice it coming toward you. Ramirez laughs at you again, giving a wry look to N'Jadaka as she asks him to maybe hold your hand to relax you. It does sort of work,  because he's so quiet it's easy to forget he's present. Half of the fear and anxiety comes from feeling alone so it's nice to be reminded that you aren't.

Ramirez starts to explain the tests after capping your blood sample, using so much medical jargon you can hardly keep up, but you stop her when she mentions an 'NT' test.

"What's that mean?"

"Nuchal Translucency. Usually it's done at 11 or so weeks but you're a day away from that so I think we're fine."

"What's that do? Short answer."

"Well," she goes. "It's done in two parts to evaluate your risk of having a baby with Down Syndrome, or heart defects. Any abnormalities."

You don't like the word 'abnormalities' but you stay quiet all the same. Considering how intelligent N'Jadaka is and how much random knowledge he seems to posses, you wonder if he knows anything about what's happening in front of him. When you glance up at him, he's just staring hard at everything Ramirez is doing, like he's waiting for her to screw up so he can have a Reason to cut up.

You nudge him and he immediately relaxes, stops squaring his shoulders. 

When the gel, cold and messy, goes all over your stomach you hold your breath because it occurs to you right then and there that this is actually happening. Ramirez is so excited for you as she starts the ultrasound, but that excitement quickly turns to confusion, maybe puzzlement as she stares at the screen.

You're starting to freak out internally again as you study her features but she catches you staring and smiles again.

"Okay," she goes, moving the probe around your stomach. "Where are you, little one..."

It seems like it takes a million years for her to do what she's doing, and to make it all worse you can't tell what's happening on the screen because it seems to be nothing but static and vague shapes. 

After a bit she gets an image that she likes, and her eyes light up again and she points to what actually does look like a fetus. She shows you the head and the developing profile and the heartbeat, making sure to point out that the brighter areas are facial bones. You can only stare in amazement, but you can only see one shape floating in the blackness on the screen. 

"I thought-," you start. Ramirez is already ahead of you and she regards you with a pensive stare.

"Okay," is how she begins. She always does that, you notice. "I can only hear one heartbeat and I only see one fetus, hon. I'm going to look one more time to make sure, but this looks like what we call 'Vanishing Twin Syndrome.'"

"Well maybe you thought you saw two last time, and-"

"Hmm," she says, moving the probe back over your abdomen. "No... There were definitely two during your first appointment. Ummm.. Okay."

She's reached a conclusion, turning to face the two of you as she begins cleaning the gel off of your stomach. You feel really uneasy despite the fact that she's adamant that you (or the surviving fetus) aren't in any danger and that this has happened many times before to women with 'multiples.'

As she explains you feel N'Jadaka squeeze your hand, perhaps involuntarily, because you don't know how to feel about the fact that you've essentially had a miscarriage and not even realized. 

"...During the first trimester when these things happen, there's absolutely no actual way to prevent or predict this sort of thing. This usually happens to women over 30 but it's been known to happen to women your age. You haven't had any pelvic pain or cramps, have you? Bleeding?"

You shake your head, now sitting upright. 

"We still don't know  _why_ this happens, but..improper cord implantation may be a cause. Again, out of the mother's hands!"

While you appreciate her insistence that none of this was your fault, there's still some annoying nagging thought in the back of your mind that somehow it is. All you can think of is your utter cluelessness about your own pregnancy and the reckless ways you've acted and that uneasiness grows. 

As you sit there, trying not to cry, Ramirez turns your attention back to what you suppose actually matters; the little thing currently growing in your stomach. She says with glee that they're the size of a kumquat, but you have to ask what that is.

N'Jadaka snorts at your question, and when you look at him he's shaking his head. 

"Well," you say, voice shaking. "When can you tell if it's a boy or a girl?"

Standing, Ramirez replies, "Not for a little while, hon. It's too early to say right now. All I can give you is those old wive's tales but they're just that."

Then she laughs before adding that they're 'fun' at the very least. As she gathers papers and such for you you try and think of any of those superstitious sayings off the top of your head. Every time someone got pregnant in your family your grandmother would bring out her Old Knowledge, and she's been right on more than one occasion. 

You got a lot of acne? Girl. Carrying low? Boy. Craving sweets? Girl. And on and on she would go, annoying the pregnant party to death with all her medicinal advice backed with absolutely no science. When your cousin was pregnant with M you're almost certain she was going to have a fit after the tenth straight minute of lecturing about natural herbs and roots she should surround herself with. 

After all this, you stand timidly by the door to the exam room with a question playing at the tip of your tongue. Today has been overwhelming to you and it's only noon, and you want to spend the rest of the day in bed with the covers over you. N'Jadaka hasn't said a word the entire appointment, and you'd think he was mentally checked out had you not caught the clenching of his jaw as Ramirez told you a twin didn't make it.

She looks at you expectantly, clearly seeing you have something to say. 

"What should I do? Is that it?"

"Yeah!" she goes, nodding. "That's it for now. Your pregnancy should continue as normal and your baby should be unaffected by all this. If you experience anything strange before your next appointment, absolutely do not hesitate to call me, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll see you, then! IF you don't hear from me in the next couple weeks, that means this test went fine and we didn't find anything to worry about."

"Okay."

You spend an awful amount of time afterwards crying, unable to accept the fact that there was nothing that you could have done to prevent this from happening. Sometimes these things happen, but your up-and-down emotions have you on the lowest of lows about the entire ordeal and you don't like it.  Curious about how N'Jadaka is feeling about all this, you wonder if he's too busy being annoyed by your blubbering to actually feel anything.

He's gone currently, picking up everything Ramirez recommended you buy, which is perfect because you currently look like a dying raccoon. 

Your cheap mascara is blinding you, though, so you go up to your vanity mirror to try and make yourself look alive and as you do you notice that you  _are_ starting to show a little.

It's hard to notice, because you've often looked like this after eating a big meal, but you haven't eaten much today yet. You're stuck staring, letting the small 'kumquat' sized ball in your stomach distract you long enough for your tears to dry. 

That's all that currently matters.

Out in the living room, King starts barking to let you know that N'Jadaka's back, and you don't know why you expected a knock.

"I guess I need to just go ahead and get you a key made," you say with a squint, leaning against the doorframe. 

He ignores you, setting all of the bags down on the kitchen counter with a short grunt that indicates everything was heavy. With a closer inspection, you see that rather than just grab the vitamins and coconut oil you asked for he's gone ahead and got groceries to fill your empty kitchen. The cherry on top is the steaming containers of chinese food in his right hand.

"Wow," you say, looking over at him. 

"Wow, nothin'. You need to do better with this sad ass kitchen. How am I supposed to leave you in here alone if you eat like you ain't pregnant."

"Excuse me. I eat a lot, thank you."

"Yeah, once a day, all at once."

You roll your eyes and begin putting things away. He's been snapping at you ever since the doctor's appointment and you don't have the energy right now to address his apparent disappointment with more bickering.

So you ask, looking at all the organic stuff he's bought you. He doesn't say anything right away, but when you turn to look at him he's staring right at you, leaning against the counter near the coffee maker.

"Don't matter what I feel," he says. "How you feel?"

"Well," you start, messing with the frayed ends of your old tee. "I'm okay now, I think. I told you something bad was gonna happen, though, didn't I? I felt it."

He rolls his eyes and you're confused. You can barely open your mouth before he cuts you off.

"Stop with that shit," he shoots and you flinch at the slight raise in his voice. "Quit actin' like all this is because of you. Damn, baby, this shit is fucked up but-"

He seems at a complete loss for words, his sentence tapering off into silence before you start smiling at the look on his face. You find it kind of endearing, seeing the vicious Killmonger so utterly confused, and at that you just hold your arms out toward him. Rather than brush you off he comes right in for the hug, putting his face right in your neck in a way that he's never done before.

Usually, since he's taller than you, he'll put his chin on the top of your head or just touch the side of his to yours. This, is new, just like the way he refuses to let you go when you try and keep putting  groceries away. 

You kind of feel like crying again, but rather than let the tears come you try and change the subject. You can't worry about what you've lost, just what you have in front of you, and the words play like a mantra in your brain following your good stress-relief cry from earlier.

"You think it's a boy or a girl?"

"Boy," he says, finally letting you go. 

"And why do you want a boy? So he can get on my nerves like you do? Sorry, this here is gonna be a girl. I can tell."

He sucks his teeth at you in reply, saying, "Well then I'm gettin' yo ass pregnant again until I get a boy."

"Who said I wanna do this again?"

And the two of you are off, arguing about which big headed babies he wants, which is funny considering he started off not wanting any. Now he's full in, talking about a 'few' boys and all that (maybe 4) and when you look at him like he's crazy he starts snickering.

"I'm fuckin' with you, relax."

"Okay then," you say, finally letting your eyebrows relax. They've been damn near in your hairline. "Because you must not want me around. Don't get greedy. "

This awakens that frisky side of him for some reason and he roughly yanks you closer by the waist. " Sexy ass."

"You-I thought we were having a nice conversation and you ruin it."

But of course, what else could be on his mind? You may not have noticed your ass apparently getting bigger but you've noticed the dewy glow in your face, aside from the random acne breakouts. Soon your chest will plump up and he's really going to be unable to resist you, then.

Ignoring the fact that he's basically groping you, you ask about the books you requested. There were a few you wanted by a couple of black authors with an different, more relatable look at pregnancies. The third was your standard, run-of-the-mill what to expect book filled with lots of interesting pregnancy facts and cute illustrations to match. 

"Nah," he goes, reaching for the cabinet door. "Didn't feel like doin' all that."

"Ugh, okay. I'll order them online since you wanna be like that. Or maybe i'll go down to Barnes and Noble by my damn self, in the plaza next to the art supply store where i'mma buy a bunch of markers and posterboard so I can make a big ass sign that says 'NOW HIRING NIGGAS; because the one I have ain't shit.'"

He knows better than to irritate you, because you'll say something 'mean,' but if he didn't want you to be mean he wouldn't have taught you to be so. In fact, you think he does it on purpose because he loves to see that part of you, and sure enough he's just smirking down at you when you flip him off. 

"And," you add smartly. "I'm using  _your_ money."

With that you go back to putting the remaining groceries up, you feel his idiot eyes on you the entire time. You already know what he's going to say (or do) because Devon used to do it. Whenever you'd get an attitude men always want to come in smooth with the gift of dick. 

Honestly, you could use some, but you keep ignoring him in favor of trying to liven up your apartment a bit more. It's been as stagnant as your mood lately, and you aim to fix it by lighting a few candles and reclining on the couch. There's food to eat but you instead you politely ask your phone to play some Sade because you're feeling a nice nap.

The couch is your second favorite place to sleep, and one of your favorite pieces of furniture. It's been with you for years, and it's a nice deep grey  that compliments the rest of your apartment nicely. For some reason thinking about home decor relaxes you, it always has, and it's probably the reason you had to throw away so many IKEA catalogs when you moved.

You'd asked N'Jadaka if he wanted to go to IKEA with you to pick up some stuff and his mean ass had the nerve to say 'fuck no' and laugh at you like it was an absurd request. Bitch.

With the smell of those clean linen candles you'd recently bought and the sounds of the Diamond Life album filtering through your apartment you reach a level of total exhaustion you don't think you've felt in a while. Something tells you you're going to sleep like a baby, funnily enough, if the heavy-footed man behind you doesn't ruin it. 

Sure enough he sits right above your head, jostling the cushions enough that you open one eye to look up at him in irritation. You stay silent, still, curiously watching as he reaches a hand over to slide your tee shirt up. He's just staring at your stomach blankly, a slight crease in between his eyebrows as he does. 

It looks like he's noticed the slight swell in your lower stomach as well, and he lets out a long sigh when he places a hand over it. You put your hand over his to hold it in place, closing your eyes again in a vain attempt to keep relaxing. 

His hands are rough, and calloused, from years of doing everything and you  _hate_ that your inner Hoe Thoughts are mentally begging him to slide it just a bit farther south..

A part of your shitty mood lately has been that you've been irrevocably horny. You've been ignoring it on a part of your attitude 'problem' lately but now you're too tired to suppress it.  

"What're you doing?" you ask finally, smirking up at him. "Can you tell there's a little bump there now?"

He just nods, taking his hand back. That's the end of that, because he immediately proves he's on your Horny wavelength when he opens his mouth again.

"Fuck," he goes. "Them 3 months I was gone you must have been eatin' some good shit because you been  _extra_ bad lately."

 "It's probably because I'm pregnant," you say, snorting. "But i'll take it."

"I don't fuck with ugly girls I told you that."

"What the hell does that mean?" you ask. "Other than that you're an asshole."

"That you was the baddest chick at that cookout, period."

It's very hard to keep yourself from repeating his last word and adding a hard 't' at the end because he gets so annoyed when you do it. A lot of little things that you do or say annoy him and you think it's hilarious because it's tying back to your little analysis of him in your head. That he's so unused to sticking around a woman this long that he's finding little things about you to nitpick. He's funny. 

'Smooth Operator' has just started when you suddenly hop up, sick of pretending like you don't want every inch of him the way he's just sitting there with that long-sleeved black shirt on that's fitting him so nice it may as well be painted on. 

He doesn't even get the chance to throw any of those smirks or filthy words your way because you just smash your lips to his, accidentally clicking teeth in the process. He tries to say something smart but you pull away just enough to tell him to 'shut up,' hoping it'll set off his aggro button. 

As if you really need the pelvic trauma.

You're sure the noise N'Jadaka makes against your fervent kisses is one of protest to you ordering him around but it's quickly replaced by a groan from deep in his throat as you grind down onto his lap. Your libido is currently performing a hostile takeover of your body and you're not doing a thing to resist it. All of this pent up anger and sadness and exhaustion is manifesting right now and you  _need_ this stress relief, bad.

So when he pulls your shirt so hard it tears you don't care one bit. It was an old pajama shirt anyway, probably your Dad's at some point and it falls to the floor limply. Your long nails are poking several holes into his shirt as you struggle to pull it over his head, and when you finally do, you start laughing at the smirk he's giving you.

"Goofy."

"Ugh, shut-"

He yanks you closer, gripping you hard just like you've grown to like with him, and you see those damn fangs. 

"You gon' stop tellin' me to shut up," he says, looking you up and down. "And I ain't no bitch like that  **bitch** nigga you used to fuck with."

"I ain't no bitch either," you repeat, looking down through your lashes at the way his lips curl into a smirk.  You see the dimples and you're weak, and his irritating ass has made you forget all about that aggression. You freeze.

It's enough time for him to grab you and flip you onto your back hard enough for you to want to cuss him out. You want sex not a wrestling finishing combo. Of course, this nets you a gruff 'my bad' in your ear that gets quickly forgotten as he spreads your legs open so wide they hurt. Having to accommodate him like this is both your favorite and least favorite parts about sleeping with N'Jadaka. 

However, you have a feeling he isn't in the state of mind to be all cute and missionary. 

You're proven right when he stops you from cumming even though he knows you can't resist his tongue, and barks at you to turn around. He just puts it on you again, from the back, and this is what always gets your knees weak. 

At first you thought this was a 'punishment' type thing but the more he gives your body attention the more you know it's an appreciation. Sometimes you wonder if you'll ever get 'used' to him, worried that the sensations of him touching you with literally any part of himself will one day lose it's thunder. But if anything, you're more sensitive and more aware of exactly each nerve in your damn body because he is taking you there. Your hands grip the arm of the couch tightly, eyes screwed shut as you rock slowly back against N'Jadaka's mouth with a kind of careful concentration that ensures he gets all the right spots.  

Sometimes you get mad when you think about how long and flat his tongue is, because it doesn't make any damn sense for one man to hold so much power. He drives you insane, and every cell in your body has been screaming for him since he first bared those fangs on the Fourth of July.

He's so dangerous, and you need to be too. Especially because all this new... _attention_  he's giving your sore behind would be enough to make  **you propose**  if you were in a weaker state of mind.

"Ain't talkin' all that shit now, huh," he says, staring down at your trembling legs in admiration as you flop tiredly to your back. 

"Not out loud," you sigh, wondering if you just fucking died. "Let's take this somewhere else, I'm not ruining my couch."

Maybe he'll take the news about T'Challa's mother wanting to meet you slightly better if he gets some first. Maybe after you get back on your feet because something tells you he's about to go all the way in and have you on bedrest.

It's a distraction, and that's what you need right now.


	30. don't know how to act, i

Sade might be one of your favorite artists to set a mood too; doesn't matter to what. Cleaning the house, cooking a hot meal no one will appreciate, or lastly, this. You don't know what song is playing, the vocals are muffled through your closed bedroom door (the only way to keep King out) so all you can hear is the instrumental. Hell, it may not even be Sade anymore because you're too caught up in the man in front of you that it's hard to say how much time has passed. 

There's something wrong with you, you think, because the way he has one hand holding your neck in a way that supports your chin and allows him to move your head in all directions has you ready to have as many babies as he wants. You're completely out of your damn mind, but that's the effect he's having on you at the moment. Not once have you ever kissed someone this long and with  _this_ much tongue without having to disgustingly dry your face off and it's driving you crazy. 

Your lips are numb, your face is numb, and your jaw is tired and yet you slide your acrylic nails up his chest in appreciation anyways. The way he shivers is hard to ignore and the action causes you to laugh hard enough for him to pull away from you.

"Fuck is so funny," he says to you, eyes so clouded with lust he looks drunk. His face is so intense as he gazes at you he almost looks angry, challenging, like he's about to pounce and devour you.

"Nothing," you say, and you try and get your hands to the waistband of his sweats. All of this heat radiating off of his shirtless form has you sweating yourself, especially because he's been poking you in the butt for the past  few minutes. It's been so chilly out that you don't think you've seen N'Jadaka in anything but sweats lately and you wish you owned that many pairs. Actually, you just want to wear  _his_ clothes because the bigger something is the cozier you are.

 He huffs, giving you a final rough peck on the lips before pushing you backwards into all your pillows. It's another thing he hates about your apartment, but you don't care one bit because no matter how much shit he talks who's carrying his big-headed baby? Who's body drives him crazy?

Yours.

That much is obvious by the way he just keeps staring at you, eyes traveling up and down your body in ways that's making you blush but he wouldn't know it. You just feel it, all the hot tv static buzzing in your cheeks as he bites his full lips at the sight of you.

He says something under his breath, one word and it isn't in english but he won't tell you what it is when you ask. He just acts like you haven't even spoken, lazily stroking himself with one hand while the other nudges your legs apart. This is always the hardest part, pun intended, but being with N'Jadaka has made you long for prep more than anything.

You'd rather him be mouth harassing you again, so you beckon him closer with one finger and putting a hand over his stomach to stop him from entering you just yet. 

"Wait," you say timidly. "Can you..."

He just sucks his teeth, squinting down at you as he says, "You already wet as shit."

"So? You so damn rough-"

All you need is two fingers so you flash him a peace sign so he knows what's good. You were finally beginning to get used to him to the point where that initial thrust didn't hurt as much but now it's as if everything reset. For the past few weeks you've been extra sensitive, and while it's made for amazing orgasms, it's had you aching much easier too. You got a wax the other day and almost swung on the poor woman at the spa. 

N'Jadaka calls you a 'spoiled princess' as he slowly inserts (one) finger and when you correct him that you should be a 'queen' he gives you the other one. You sigh happily for once, not wincing and running like you always do. This is more than satisfying for you, but not really for him, because you're just trying to kiss on him and he's trying to kill you.

His fingers are curving upward inside you, his wrist and arm moving at such a speed you can't even do anything but wrench your eyes shut and hit vocal octaves you've never achieved in turn. He's never done this before, no one has, and in about 15 seconds flat you're seeing stars and trembling from your toes all the way up to your scalp. This orgasm is endless, more intense, and wracks through your entire body to the point that you wonder if you're going to pass out. 

"What the  _fuck,"_ you say in between a few lasting spasms. You feel out of breath and tired but you're still in complete shock at what just happened. " _Oh my god."_

N'Jadaka is only looking at you wryly, and his fingers that previously sent you to God are dripping wet all the way down to his elbow. "The irritatin', shit-talkin' ones always be squirters."

You groan, noticing the wet spot under you, before telling him to shut up and hitting him on the arm. He did that on purpose, you know he did, and to make it all the more humiliating he shuts you up with a pointer and a middle finger in your mouth. 

It's sweet, whatever it is that just burst out of you like a pressure valve leak and it debunks the horrible theory you used to have about it being pee. But still, as annoyed as you are about him heckling you about all your shit talking, you feel like this is all incredibly erotic and you decide to just go head and get into it.

He just better not get used to you 'tasting' yourself all the damn time.

The house phone in your bedroom starts to ring and you can't help but look over to see who's calling. It's a habit because of work. To effectively be able to work from home you had to get a house phone to keep work-related stuff off your personal cell, and of course your parents had to weasel the number out of you anyway.

Ignoring the Caller ID, you push yourself up to rest on your elbows before placing an overly-puckered kiss to his bottom lip. You mean to say something cheeky but this seems to bring him back to Earth and remind him why he's got you all primed and ready like this. All you say isone word, because you need this distraction and you need to distract him from everything for a moment. "Please."

He chuckles darkly at you, moving up to a sitting position and pulling you with him so you're kneeling over his lap. He's talking all kinds of shit to you, quietly in that drawl where his voice seems to lower 9 octaves and it's your favorite thing in the world. Moments like when he was in Wakanda and you called a little too early sometimes, being greeted by that gruff voice hoarse with sleep was heaven. 

Unsurprisingly, his hands grab at your behind, and you almost start to laugh but it dies in your throat when he smacks it. Smack, rub, smack, rub, it's like he thinks rubbing the sting away will make it better. You don't care, though, because every time his hand connects harshly with your ass you want to cry in the best way. He's turning you into a freak.

Sort of. 

"Hey," you mumble, frowning despite his sloppy kisses on your neck and shoulders. He only continues like he hasn't heard you, 'tsking' in your ear. 

"You ever had somebody play with this, though?"

"No, I don't do anal. Told you that, N."

"That ain't what I asked you," he goes, continuing his palming. "All this ass and you ain't never had a nigga that know what to do with it.  _Fuck."_

He sounds mad with lust and it's halfway making you crazy and halfway freaking you out because you don't know what he means by 'playing' with your ass other than beating on it like a bongo drum. Still, the part of you that's ever curious and trusts his Nympho King status wants him to show you what he means besides sitting you harshly on his dick to the point that you hiss like he stabbed you. 

However this position is very intimate, to you, chests pressed together as you wrap your arms around his neck and stare at the headboard. You think that maybe he's forgotten that spiel he just gave about your butt until he sneaks a wandering finger near the place you told him to stay away from. If you remember correctly, when he first dickmatized you, you told him you'd slide him if he went anywhere near your asshole and yet here he is. 

You seize up immediately, bucking forward a little on him as he chuckles in your ear. "What you runnin' for? That don't feel good? Hm?"

He's not actually doing more than pressing on you with the pad of his pointer finger but paired with the upward thrusting he's giving you it's actually driving you crazy. You don't want to admit it, but it does feel good, and you hate how he seems to know your body better than you know it yourself.  _Never_ in your damn life have you felt this sensation, odd yet maddening, and you don't even bother answering him. 

Everything on your body is just so extra sensitive now and N'Jadaka knows that because he is gloating up a damn storm as he fucks you. 

"I told you I know what you like," he says, breathing coming out in short pants to match yours. "You like all that rough shit. Nasty ass."

He's telling no lies  and you hate to admit that, but you keep your comments to yourself. You have absolutely no energy to form words so you stay silent, letting this happen because you'd be stupid not to. Not N'Jadaka, though, no. He's the shit talking King, and you love it because men who stay silent during sex turn you all the way off. Sometimes, that quiet, 'make-love' type of thing is appreciated but more often than not you want this. 

The music has stopped so you're faced with the obscene slapping sounds of skin connecting with skin and the creaking of your bedframe. It'd be just your luck for it to slip off the lifts again and send the both of you tumbling to the floor; the thought has you unable to hold in your laugh no matter how hard you try.

"What the hell are you laughin' at?" 

"Nothing," you say, laughing even harder. 

"Yeah, okay."

He shows you just how he feels about you suddenly laughing, rendering you speechless again with thrusts so hard you cum in about fifteen seconds flat. Both of your legs cramp immediately as they try and wrap themselves around his waist, and he fllows you close behind with a grip so tight on your own that you'll probably bruise.  You ride the last of it out unprovoked, too caught up in your own pleasure that you completely forget about him until he finishes himself. 

Breathless and exhausted you manage to sigh, "You're so fuckin' nasty."

To which he responds with a 'yeah' and a sloppy kiss to your collarbone before lifting you off him. You add that he's rough as hell, too, and he doesn't deny it as he disappears into your bathroom. He definitely went in too hard because he wasn't supposed to put you to sleep; just get you hungry enough to eat all of that Chinese food he bought. 

So you get up to prepare for a nap, all of that lack of sleep finally beginning to catch up to you these days. It's been a tiring day, and the doctor's appointment still has you reeling enough to the point that you forget all about that takeout after your crowded shower. 

Two people cramming inside is the tightest fit you've ever experience and you don't appreciate N'Jadaka trying to get some as if you didn't just sleep together a few moments before. His sex drive is enormous, and you wonder how he could simultaneously always want to fuck yet be able to not fuck for long periods of time. You'd think the two would cancel each other out.

"You out?" N'Jadaka asks you jokingly, snorting as you pull the covers over you. They smell like your perfume and his cologne. 

"I'm out."

"Me too. I'll see you tomorrow."

This makes you shoot straight up and stare at him as he laces his shoes up. King is sniffing around him like he always does, and you count down the seconds until N'Jadaka finally pays him some attention. He doesn't, so you nudge him in the back with your foot, agitation in your voice.

"Say hello to my dog," you say, nudging him again. "And you're goin' home? That's what we do? Fuck and go?"

He sucks his teeth and glances back at you before moving to stand up. You can't stand him, so effortlessly fine and all muscled up like that in front of you. Every time he gets ready to leave your place you start to get anxious again, just at the thought of being alone. You don't know how this pregnancy is going to play out; if the two of you are going to live separately or if he's going to move you in with him. His house isn't exactly the most baby-friendly, but you suppose it's big enough to accommodate one if he lets you turn one of those rooms into a nursery. 

That's a thought for then, though.

"I got some shit to take care of, lil bit," he goes, coming over to kiss you on the side of the head. "Relax and keep these damn doors locked."

"I can't relax," you complain, pulling at his jacket. "I'm on edge when I'm by myself. Can I come with you?"

"No, you don't need to be around all that shit."

Now you just want to know where he thinks he's going if it's too dangerous for you, but you know he won't answer. Not only does being alone make you nervous now, but confronting the dangerous shit N'Jadaka does when he's away from you makes it worse. You know that now he has some weird upgrade gifted by T'Challa but that can't possibly make him invincible. 

"Well, when are you gonna be done?"

This just makes him grin at you before he starts toward the door. 

"I'll be done when I'm done," he says. "Call your girls or somethin', baby, you'll be alright."

"Take King with you!"

It's just when he leaves that you remember you have to work in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

"Have you told your dad yet?" is Sydney's first question to you  as you slide into the backseat of her car. Kayla's already in the passenger's side and you managed to finish all of your work early enough to catch them before they hit the mall.

It's rainy out today, and you're layered up with a leather jacket/beanie combo over a pair of ripped jeans. This slight chill in the air is your favorites as far as outfits go but in all honesty you can't wait until spring rolls back around. But by then, you'll  be walking around with a huge pregnancy stomach. At least your baby will be a Summer Child, though, born when the sun is high and the breeze smells like flowers.

Taking a sip of your decaf, you answer her question with a groan. You haven't told any of your family yet outside of your mother, but even then you haven't given her a confirmation about you keeping your baby. In fact, you plan on doing so on Christmas, which is hurtling toward you in less than a month. Next comes the new year and your inability to drink any alcohol during the ball drop you don't care to watch.

Kayla is adamant that you're going to look so cute when your stomach gets round, listing off all of those rompers and dresses you'll be able to rock with your bump. She's so annoying, and you snicker the entire time she all but talks about taking complete control of your wardrobe until you're ready to pop.

"That reminds me," you say. "I should start getting some maternity clothes soon. That's what this blog-"

"Lord," Sydney goes, getting onto the freeway. "You readin' pregnancy blogs?"

"Yeah cuz going in blind is gonna be good for me," you respond smartly. "I  _like_ reading these things and they  _relax_ me, bitch."

"I'm not knockin' em! Just don't call us talkin' about you want to give birth in a kiddy pool wearing a slavegirl dress with some patchouli-smelling old lady named Miss Geraldine praying to the ancestors in the corner of the room. Summonin' ghosts and shit."

You go to remark at how specific that shit is until Kayla starts cackling about her auntie doing one of those types of births. She goes on to say that she doesn't knock those either, but they damn near had to drag her aunt to the hospital by the ponytail because she refused to acknowledge that there may be something wrong when shit went south. Both of your friends plead with you not to be that type of Stubborn Mother, and you promise that you won't be because you've seen it too.

Your cousin  _barely_ produced any breast milk but refused to give M any formula and it got to the point all of you wanted to fight her for nearly starving her baby out of some stubborn, misguided idea that if she didn't do  _everything_ 'natural' she was inherently a bad parent. God, you remember being so mad at her for that.

And now, she looks back on it all with disbelief that she acted that hard-headed.

But just because you won't doesn't mean N'Jadaka's ass won't. Oh, your poor, ankh-brained baby daddy. He already acts like he has an attitude about Ramirez not being black and you just know if your labor and delivery nurses aren't he'll act a fool. A part of you already believes he doesn't even want you in a hospital but you've made it very clear you don't have the pain tolerance to tough that shit out. Women died in childbirth too often from the pain of it all for you to want to risk it but you know the two of you are going to clash on this. 

Kayla offers you important advice: "As long as he knows you run this shit, it'll be good."

Does he know that, though? Or rather, do you? You think hard about it all the way to the mall, only snapping out of it once your cell phone buzzes in your purse. It takes forever to yank out, stuck because of the new case you ordered with a bunch of pearls and other cute things hot glued to the back. It's useless, and you didn't need it, but you were bored one night and left to roam on Etsy. 

"Hello?" you ask, trailing behind your friends. It's beginning to drizzle again. 

"What you doin'?"

You wonder when N'Jadaka is going to actually greet you without saying 'what you doin' for once; it's basically how he says hello.

Sighing, you tell him where you are but it only makes him ask why you're sighing and you have to convince him you're okay. 

"You still feel tired and faint and shit?" he asks, actually sounding concerned. "You don't need to be outside."

"I'm fine," you insist, sidestepping a woman and her huge baby stroller. "And I'm not by myself, so.."

"Hm."

"Yeah, I know you don't care but whatever, nigga, i'm grown. Anyway, what are  _you_ doing."

"Mindin' my business," he predictably shoots and it always makes you laugh for some reason. 

You continue on in silence, still holding the phone up to your ear despite the fact that neither one of you are talking. You may as well be, though, so you don't try to hang up at all as you pause to look at the shoes in a nearby store for sneakerheads. All the shoes on display look like they're shrinkwrapped, and you scoff at the price tag on a pair that you've seen N'Jadaka wear.

You're about to bring it up when he suddenly remarks that King is a 'waste.' 

With a raised eyebrow you go, "Excuse me?"

"You know what I mean," he says flippantly. "This big ass pit bull and he can't have no puppies. Waste."

"Zeus can have puppies," you say thoughtfully before realizing what he said. "And i'm glad King can't! I hear those friends of yours talking about his weight and all that mess. All you would  do is pimp out some poor girl pit and provide these not-shit dudes out here with fighting dogs. I don't tolerate pit fighting and you better not either."

He scoffs and you can just  _see_ the expression on his face. "Ain't nobody say shit about fightin' em."

"You think i'm stupid."

"Girl-"

"When niggas overly-admire pit bulls they wanna fight them I  _know_ what i'm talking about,  _Erik._ I'm still mad you cut his ears, too, don't play with me about that dog. You  _lucky_ I let you put that big ass chain around his neck."

He tells you that you need to watch who you talk to 'like that,' and you only ask him what the hell he's going to do about it. You can talk to him any way you want to and that's that on that. He chuckles at you, and you're glad he finds this as amusing as you do. Usually whenever the two of you bicker it lasts long enough to the point someone starts laughing and usually it's him not being able to take you seriously anymore.

Sydney, Kayla and you continue walking through the semi-crowded mall with out much in mind as far as buying anything. Your cell phone, warm to the touch, is still up to your ear when you mutter about the guys nearby staring at you and the first thing N'Jadaka asks is what you're wearing.

"What?" you go, half paying attention.

"I said what you got on?"

"Jeans and like two shirts! Damn-"

But then there's a bang, followed by a few more, and you're more annoyed that you drop your cell phone rather than the fact that people are running around in a blind panic. You manage to grab your shattered phone before it gets kicked away, being immediately pulled along by Kayla as she chastises Sydney for bringing them to this 'bunk ass mall.'

It's true, Oak Springs is kind of ...eh, and you're kind of surprised it hasn't closed yet on account on a lot of the incidents. Someone is  _always_ fighting in the food court and you're sure you remember a couple reports of stabbings a few years ago but it's the easiest mall to get to without being stuck in terrible traffic.

But it's not like you were driving, Sydney should've known better.

There are several more bangs and they definitely sound like the firing of a semi-automatic weapon of some kind. So many people are running and screaming that it seems impossible to make it more than five inches at a time. The three of you hadn't even made it that far into the mall yet before all hell broke loose so the fact that you can't manage to get any closer to the exit is spiking your anxiety levels something awful. Sydney won't stop going 'oh my god' and Kayla hasn't stopped cussing since the initial  _bang._ The both of them are just yanking you by the arms like you can't run by yourself and if anything, they're the reason you run right in to the glass of the sneaker shop.

The entire panel rattles dangerously but you don't even have time to react because they're pulling  you inside. The employees have already started yanking the metal gates down as the three of you enter, and they instruct you to stay away from the glass as they do so.

"Aw, hell," Kayla suddenly goes, out of breath. "I thought this damn store had a exit. What kind of store don't have an emergency door in the back? Bootleg ass mall."

"I'm starting to think God hates me," is all you say as you sink into the chair near the register. "I'm picking the hangout spots from now on, Sydney."

The two employees working the  _Sneaker Headz_ shop just exchange looks with all of you and it's like you're all trying to confront the fact that you're stuck in this place until the cops clear the building of threats. You're assuming mall security is already on it. But with this mall, that's expecting a lot. 

The one closest to you, bald head and long lanky build, just shrugs as he regards you and your friends. 

"Damn," he goes, chuckling a bit to himself. "Last time we went on lockdown  we was stuck with a lady and her bad ass son . Y'all fine as shit."

His coworker, a girl with a ponytail, rolls her eyes and throws a handful of security tags at him. She assures you and your frazzled friends that they have walkies and direct lines to mall security. All you have to do is wait until it's safe to exit. 

While Sydney asks if the metal grates are bulletproof in a shaky voice, you assess the damage of your cell phone. It's shattered beyond belief, spider cracks extending from the home button to the front camera and now you  guess there's an actual reason for you to let go of your outdated tech. 

Buying phones irks you, they're such a stupid waste of money.

 

* * *

 

By the time Sydney pulls into the parking lot of your apartment complex, you're so tired you can barely stand. The three of you had been in the shoe store for hours, and your anxiety had you feeling faint a couple of times as you waited for the All Clear from the authorities. That shit was the last thing your high-strung ass needed and your nerves are absolutely shot as you exit the car. Kayla jokingly asks you that if you're not too traumatized, y'all could try to go out to the  _good_ mall this weekend and to that you agree. 

It's the same mall you took Shuri to, and not once has it housed any gunfights over  _Instagram ,_ according to social media. The worst that's happened at the other mall is a shouting match over a Gucci belt.

 Dudes get clout upgrades and don't know how to act.

On your way up to your apartment, you lament the fact that not only is your cell busted, but King is currently with N'Jadaka so you're going to be alone. Despite the altercation at the mall ending in zero casualties you find your hands trembling as you pull out your keys to unlock the door. There are signs of life from your neighbors like usual; music bumping from one apartment or the slight laughter from a tv show but everything feels so silent and eerie that all of the hair stands up on your neck. 

A hand grabs you just as you turn the knob and you whirl around to face your attacker, shrieking in the process.

It's only N'Jadaka, and he looks crazy as he grabs your face with two rough hands on either side. His breathing is coming out hard and you can't register what he's saying as you stumble back into your apartment, buckling under his weight. You don't know how to react as he's asking you what happened, or if you're good, because he scared you so bad just now you could throw up. 

Instead, you nearly start to cry, and this sends the wrong message because he suddenly looks like he's going to kill everyone in this building at the thought of you being hurt. 

"You scared me!" you finally manage to shout, pulling his hands away from your face. "Don't do that!"

His breathing is still coming out in harsh pants as he regards you with a bit of confusion, shaking his head a bit before taking another step toward you. 

"Who the f-,  _I_ scared you?! How the hell i'm supposed to act when all I hear is gunshots and screamin' and shit on the phone? Then yo goofy ass ain't answer me-"

He goes on and on and on about how dumb you are and at first you're irritated but it's obvious you scared the shit out of him, evident by the slight crack in his voice as he's continuously calling you every variant of 'goofy' in the book. He's squaring his shoulders like he's about to fight you for scaring him and the fact that he can't express this feeling without being his mean ass self is so absurd you almost burst out laughing.

But his hands tremble ever so slightly too when you grab them again, and you know now that the thought of losing you nearly made him go crazy. Shortly after the shots were fired you dropped and broke your phone, so caught up in everything that you failed to realize you had still been talking to N'Jadaka beforehand. You can only imagine how that would've sounded, paired with his failure to get ahold of you.

It looks like the both of you scared the hell out of each other and now that the shaky high has worn off you're left with delirious laughter and you can't stop. N'Jadaka doesn't find this as amusing and he flares his nostrils out with a harsh exhale as he stares you down.

That laughter turns to tears, and your legs turn to jelly as the fool in front of you finally decides that embracing you might actually be better than yelling at you like you're a kid. With your head to his chest you can feel his erratic heartbeat, and that in itself speeds up your own because for some reason you think a part of you never fully expected that he cared for you in the way that you wanted. 

His pulse is saying things that he himself won't, as is his heaving chest, not being able to catch up with his breathing. It's telling you a lot more than you expected, and as he caresses the back of your head with one hand you stand there, shocked at the idea that what T'Challa had told you may be true.

And speaking of him, you don't see a better opportunity to finally make a confession.

"T'Challa's mother wants to meet me..."

 


	31. cherries and wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rosemary and thyme....

  
  
  
  
  
  
N'Jadaka takes your confession about as well as you assumed, in that he immediately catches an attitude wondering why you didn't tell him sooner. That he doesn't appreciate you and T'Challa keeping secrets with each other behind his back.

To your defense, you kind of went through a lot in between then and now, and it's not like you're happy about this either. The idea of meeting T'Challa's mother, N'Jadaka's auntie, has you scared to no end and if this meeting doesn't happen in California you don't know what you're going to do. Sure, you want to see Wakanda, but you don't think you can handle it so soon.

But why would she come all this way, for the sake of you?

God, you wonder if Meghan Markle felt this confused. 

In front of you, N'Jadaka stops his pacing and turns to you with another flare of his nostrils.

"Don't keep shit from me," he goes, still breathing hard from a few minutes ago.

"Okay," is your simple reply, wondering if he can practice what he preaches.

"And you ain't meetin' nobody without me present."

"Okay."

"And keep ya black ass in the house from now on, that's it."

"Nah."

He raises his eyebrows at your denial, scoffing like you disobeyed a direct order but he needs to know he isn't your daddy and can't  _make_ you do shit. He can ask, politely inquire, but he can't tell you do no anything unless his dick is out. Period.

You feel his eyes follow you around the living room as you remove your beanie from your hat-hair and let out the long pent up sigh that's been clinging to you for hours.

"What you mean, 'nah'?"

"It means whatever the hell you want it to mean," you mumble, filling a glass with cold water. You're starting to feel faint again, and it doesn't help that you've barely eaten today. It's so easy to forget to take care of yourself, you think you need reminders.

N'Jadaka is still staring at you dumbfounded when you turn back toward him having drained two full glasses by the time you speak again. "I'm hungry, let's go."

He only narrows his eyes at you. "Wh-"

"I'm HUNgry, let's GO," you shout, grabbing your keys. "I know you know some bougie restaurants around here, just...distract me for a few hours."

You feel close to a freak out again, hands trembling with each shaky word that exits your mouth. Suddenly the walls of your apartment seem impossibly small and you just want out. You don't want to necessarily go to N'Jadaka's place, but you don't  _have_ to come back home for work tomorrow because you could always go back to the office for a few days.

The groceries that N'Jadaka bought you will be fine if you leave your place for a few, so you pay them no mind as you try and throw together an overnight bag. It's dead silent in the apartment as you take an oversized tote and start tossing in panties and sweatpants and tshirts and work clothes. It fills up quickly and you have to find your Jansport backpack to scoop toiletries into. All of your oils and vitamins and hair stuff, because you haven't been feeling like touching any of your long wigs lately.

N'Jadaka is silent the entire time, watching you as he always does with this small inquisitive look on his face like he's trying to figure you out. He gives you that look a lot so you've gotten used to it, so you pay him no mind as you haul your crap toward the front door. For a split second he keeps staring at you before 'hm'-ing to himself and sauntering past you.

God, you muse, holding onto his arm as you leave. You're only in the first trimester and you're already weird.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  
  
  
  


"Wow."

The ambiance of the fancy french-style restaurant has you enamored as you're rather shyly led through the room of tables populated mostly by a sea of older white people. You're ignored for the most part but several stare the two of you down as you pass.

You, a woman in ripped jeans and leather and puffy eyes on the arm of a man like N'Jadaka in his baggy black pants and dreads and distressed denim jacket. The two of you don't look like you belong here at all and it kind of excites you. You  _like_ the picture the two of you are painting as you intrude on this previously pristine place.

The entire car ride downtown you couldn't help but want to have some sort of contact with him and that ranged from holding his arm to having him fuss at you for holding his arm while he was driving. But now your hand is clutching at his jacket, and he reaches behind him to swat you off him as you arrive at an empty table.

A stuffy waiter hands the two of you menus and excuses himself, and you watch him go with delight written all of your face.

"It's like a movie in here," you say, amused.

"'S what you wanted, ain't it?" he asks you with a shrug, staring you down over the menu. "All that dumb fancy shit, food you can't pronounce, waiters in suits."

With a smile, you go, "Thank you for remembering."

"Mm."

And it's silent again as you watch his eyes drop down to the embroidered menu he's holding in one hand. Now that you're looking, you notice a beaded bracelet on his wrist that you haven't seen before. Without thinking, you reach forward to touch it, which elicits a small drawback as he pulls it out of your reach.

"Sorry," you scoff, frowning. "Where'd you get that from? Etsy or something?"

"Do I  _look_ like I shop on Etsy?"

"Yeah," you admit. "You do."

At this he actually smirks, and you don't know why it makes you so happy when you can get him to smile even a little. He has the cutest dimples and it drives you crazy whenever you can see them. The view of the fangs ain't too bad either. The thought of them has a rather bold question playing on your lips and it slips out before you get a chance to stop it.

"Hey," you whisper, nudging his leg under the table with your own. "How come you've never bitten me with those fangs?"

Still looking at the menu, N'Jadaka's eyebrows do that little jump they do whenever he's surprised at something you say. The smirk comes back before his eyes flit up to meet yours for a second. Then he chuckles before continuing his perusing.

"Cuz I might fuck around and eat you," he says, voice low.

You hide your warm face behind your menu then, pretending to find something very interesting in the wine section despite the fact that you can't have any. All things considered, there aren't very many entrees on the dinner menu and you're struggling with the names of some of these. What little you do know, you're stumped by the ingredients.

Moreso to yourself, you go, "What's a 'frites'?"

"Fries, college graduate."

"Then why can't they just say that? Frites. Just take away the 't'."

He chuckles at you again, but you're too busy complaining about the prices of the food to fawn over it this time. Nothing is under 25 dollars, and this takes the cake for the most expensive dinner you've ever had and you haven't eaten yet.

Frustrated, you ask him, still unused to having money spent on you like this. The response you get is predictable.

"Get what you want."

A grin breaks out across your face and at this N'Jadaka rolls his eyes and calls you goofy, to which you disappear behind the menu again.

You don't know why he looks so good to you right now, especially because he doesn't look any different than how he has when you first saw him. It'd be completely inappropriate to ask him to fuck you on the table in front of all these old white folks, especially because you know he'd actually think about doing it.

"What will you be having, Miss?"

So instead, to sate your hunger and not your lust, you look over to the waiter and order a Smoked Duck Salad and water with lemon. You've never had duck before, but it's the only thing on the menu in English and you don't want to embarrass yourself with lame pronunciation. And what's 'confit'?

The old, suited up waiter turns to N'Jadaka next, asking him the same. He orders the Filet Mignon with Truffle fries and the Escargot. You at least know what that is, and you're too busy gawking at the prices of both to pay much attention to the bottle of wine being poured in front of you.

It's deep red, and you know it's probably the sweetest you'd ever taste but you can't have it. Pitifully, you look up to the waiter and his white gloved hand before N'Jadaka slides the glass from in front of you. He waves the second glass away before the man can pour it.

"Nah, she good."

The waiter nods and goes on his way, leaving you to quickly look up if only a  _sip_ would harm your developing baby in any way. God, just one can't hurt could it? You watch N'Jadaka take a hefty swig of the Sweet Red with a barely suppressed whine.

Batting your eyelashes you ask, "Can I just have one sip? I can smell that from over here."

"Hell no," N'Jadaka says back, one eyebrow raised. "That water is comin', you good."

"Mm.."

"Don't whine at me like that's gon' make me change my mind. That don't work with me."

"Yes it does.."

He smirks, taking another sip. "Well I'm not currently looking at that phat p-"

You kick him under the table, eyes bugged out wide as he laughs at your facial expression. On cue, a fresh plate of lemon slices are placed directly in front of you and you sit back, surprised at how perfect they are as the waiter pours you a glass of water. When it's full he leaves the pitcher on the white tablecloth before giving you a curt smile that you hardly get to return before he's gone. All of this is so amusing to you because you've never honestly been to a restaurant this 'fancy' before and all of the fanfare is proving to be even funnier than you originally thought.

N'Jadaka is just watching you observe everything, equally amused. From the intricate designs of the tablecloth to the carvings in the silverware, you just can't get enough of it all. Carefully you drop a couple lemon slices into the tall glass before finally addressing the thought that's been bouncing around in your head.

"You eat snails, huh."

Shrugging, N'Jadaka finishes the rest of the wine in the glass before reaching for the water pitcher. "They kinda fire, if I don't think too hard about what i'm eatin'."

"Oh, hey."

He just looks at you.

"This is a date, right?" you ask with a goofy smile. "I think this is the first time you've taken me out without incident. So..that's good."

He outright tells you not to speak so soon and be ready for anything, and you have to roll your eyes because he just knows how to ruin a fun conversation with some lecture. Every time he goes off on a tangent like this you really have to wonder about all the shit that he's done. How many people he's killed that didn't  _deserve_ to die and whatnot.

It's a thought that passes through your mind a lot in the middle of the night, wondering about all the negative outcomes to your relationship. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if the two of you breakup. Like, if he were to kill your ex and go to prison for life, and he ended up getting out on good behavior mixed with some pull from higher up. Would he lose his ever-loving mind if he found out you got a new boyfriend and then murder you both? Maybe it's the pregnancy hormones but something has your mind  **running** in the middle of the night when you can't sleep. It's enough to write a book. Either way, you think the two of you are definitely stuck with each other because he probably would  **not** have it if you left.

"The hell are you thinkin' about?" N'Jadaka suddenly asks, peering at you over his half-empty glass of water. "Why you mean muggin' me."

"I was thinking," you mutter, pursing your lips. "About what would happen if you killed my ex."

This seems to perk him up as he asks, "You want me to?"

"No, fool."

"I might have to if that nigga don't watch his mouth."

You laugh before changing the subject to the fiasco that was Sydney taking you to that raggedy mall. The employee that wouldn't stop hitting on you irritates N'Jadaka to no end and while his reaction is funny, you can't help but notice the staring from the table behind him.

Of course the two of you got looks as you came in but there is something clearly bothersome to the old white couple sitting right in your line of sight. The both of them just  _look_ like they'd call the cops on you if you breathed in their direction. Your leather and his dreads, an infuriating combination for them, you're sure.

You just want to say something so bad but it's like God blocks your attempt, sending your food out right as you go to open your mouth.

The steak that sits on the other side of the table looks so gorgeous your stomach almost inverts. It's dripping with juices and garlic butter, and it's an alluring pink when N'Jadaka finally cuts into it. You forget all about your salad, just watching him eat and when he finally catches your constant glancing you feel embarrassed. However, he holds his fork out toward you to feed you the next piece and it's probably the nicest thing he's ever done.

Sure, he calls you greedy afterwards, but it's still nice.  
  
  


-  
  
  


You don't find it too nice when he empties the bottle of cherry wine in front of you, though, never letting you have a single sip like it'd hurt if you just tasted it. Your mother didn't give a shit about a little taste of wine with you and you turned out fine. Somehow, you've made room for dessert and his punishment is to watch you eat from a bowl of cherries in an innocently alluring way. They came with the two crepes you ordered, and the kitchen obliged when you asked for more fruit.

The best thing about coming so late is that they want to get rid of today's ingredients without having to save them.

And so, you reach over the table to drop one of the sweetest cherries you've ever eaten into the last glass of wine N'Jadaka managed to get out of the bottle. "Don't eat it."

He gives you a look that makes you ask him if you're going to have to drive home, and he only rolls his eyes at you before going, "That's funny. Maybe  _you_ can get drunk off this shit but not me."

"Yeah, yeah, I  **know** that metabolism of yours don't like alcohol. I bet you can't even get drunk."

Shrugging, he leans back in his chair, clearly a little too close for that irritating couple that should've left a long time ago. How long are they going to entertain that same flat two glasses of champagne? N'Jadaka isn't paying them any attention, just you, but you cannot stop noticing how they're noticing you. They finally turn back around and you go back to idly eating the fruit in front of you, not even noticing the look N'Jadaka is giving you as you pull cherry stems out of your mouth.

They've all been de-pitted, and that's probably the reason why the cherry crepes were 15 damn dollars.

You pop another one in your mouth, opting to bite it instead of eating it whole, and this is apparently too much because it's hard to ignore the sharp exhale that N'Jadaka shoots out of his nose. He mutters something under his breath and you quirk an eyebrow in response.

"Sorry, what was that?" you asks in your 'customer service' voice. You know what you're doing, and you know it's the way your lips are puckering as you take a bite out of the biggest cherry, fished right out of his empty wine glass. You stare him dead in the eyes as you do so, cherry wine dripping all the way down your chin in the process and it's over with then and there.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a couple bills and tosses them on the table before reaching across and yanking you to your feet. In your haste you grab the half-full bowl of cherries and take them with you. You stumble through the dining room, knocking into the backs of people's chairs and trying not to fall, and when you pass the waiter you can tell he assumes you're skipping out on the bill by the look he gives you.

You're giggling like you've drank the wine rather than just tasted the remnants of it on a piece of fruit, and by the time you get to your truck he's got you hemmed up on the passenger's side. "What the fuck did I say, hm?"

That growl in his voice has you shivering, and before you can even say anything the pad of his thumb has swiped across your lips and smeared your red lipstick all over your chin. You don't know where this playful energy has come from on your end, but you just find everything funny today after the absurdity of being stuck in a sneaker shop all afternoon.

The absurdity of your life.

The sun has set now, but in the light from your car interior you can see how intensely he's regarding you as he waits for you to explain why you saw fit to eat that wine-soaked cherry when he said that you couldn't have any. The lights fade as you close the door back behind you and it's like a switch gets flipped that turns N'Jadaka's BOLD meter up to eleven. He yanks you around to the front of your car, pushing you hard against the hood so you're lying flat on your back. Or as flat as you can get considering your height difference.

It's nearly pitch black out and you're finding yourself bouncing between voyeuristic thrill and fear of getting caught because this idjit wants to fuck you on the hood of your car. You don't stop him when he grabs your chin so you can't give him any 'excuses as to why you can't listen.' You grin when he finally lets go, giving an insincere apology as he continues to 'cuss' you out for being insubordinate.

He yanks your tight jeans come down to just below your ass, making him ask how you even pulled them up if they were that tight.  _This_ leads into a conversation about watching how you dress around 'niggas' and you only smile wide, stretching your red-smeared lips over your teeth.

"I wore my only tight pair today," you start. "Just to make sure I still had it."

His smirk is vicious, as is the glint of what must be moonlight off his gold fangs and that has you aching to kiss him. You know he can see the change in your expression because his lips only curl upwards even more; he loves this.

"I need to teach yo little disobedient ass how to listen,"he breathes, lingering  _just_ close enough that you think you can reach his lips. You can't. "What'd I say?"

"That I couldn't taste the wine," you reply, trying not to smile. Fuck it, you're a freak now. No one has to know.

"And what you do?"

"Tasted it anyway."

This is when he enters you, surprising you because you were so focused on his face that you didn't even notice him unbutton his pants  _just_ enough to free his dick (that you're assuming has steadily been getting hard since dessert). It doesn't take much for him to get there, that's for damn sure.

The parking lot is dark, the only light sources are a few tall lamps lining the pathway into the restaurant. It's surrounded by tall trees on all sides, and you try not to think about what could be hiding in the darkness around you. Especially when N'Jadaka carries you around to the trunk and puts you in the back of your Jeep. All that sits back there is a bag full of plastic bottles you keep meaning to recycle.

The more comfortable angle satisfies him enough to start pumping away, one hand bracing himself somewhere above you and the other to the left of your head. Your truck is rocking on its axles and you're trying not to make too much noise but the fact that you're in the parking lot of a restaurant has N'Jadaka on 'quickie mode.'

He's still talking shit about you being disobedient, and you make a mental note not to ever pay his ass any attention if this will be your punishment.

"Oh you not runnin' tonight?" He suddenly asks, not slowing his thrusts down one bit. "You learned how to take this dick, finally ?"

Your red lipstick has transferred to his mouth now and you lick your own lips to try and get a lasting taste of that delicious wine. Sweets were always good but damn are you addicted now. You go to answer him with some cheeky reply but you're interrupted by the sounds of distant chatter.

It's that damn couple that wouldn't stop staring the two of you down inside, finally making their way to their ugly Mustang with fresh champagne in their systems. Lord, it's only a manner of time before they see you, and N'Jadaka is too busy not giving a fuck to stop.

You hiss at him, slapping him on the arm to get his attention but he shrugs at you like he could care less.

It gets quiet, and for a second you think that they haven't seen you but then you hear a shrill ' _Oh my god!'_ and the jig is up. Turning your head slightly to the right you see that they're gawking at you, your gaze sending them running to their car like you're coming after them with knives.

It could've been over but N'Jadaka's ignorant ass has to open his mouth.

"Aye," he calls, grinning wickedly. "Y'all don't wanna see this shit?! Now you don't wanna stare?!"

"Shut  _up!"_ you whisper, trying your hardest to wriggle out of his grip from sheer embarrassment. He's too busy fucking up the alignment of your car. It's funny, though, at the same time because those old bougie fools are actually struggling to get into their car. N'Jadaka's scandalous words have clearly caused such a stir that the man has dropped his keys somewhere in the dark.

When he finally gets the front door open, N'Jadaka let's out one final jab.

"I know you can't get that shit up no more," he says. "Aye, Ethel, if that nigga Methuselah ain't slingin' enough dick I got you!"

The car peels off like a deleted scene from Fast and Furious, and you burst into  _tears_ you're laughing so damn hard. You can't breathe at all and your chest hurts, but you can't stop.

"You are  _so_ annoying!" you shriek, hands wiping away stray tears. "Wine has you too bold, sir, never again."

"I'm 'bold' but you the one lettin' me hit in the parking lot."  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *   
  
  


"Oh my god, Sydney, can you believe I'm actually carrying this man's child and we only went on a real date yesterday?"

It's 6 in the morning and you're running on no sleep, trying your damned best to get ready for work without quitting. It's a fun job, yet challenging, but you don't see yourself here for the duration of your pregnancy. You have a very strong feeling that you're not going to have much inclination to return afterwards either.

Being a 'stay at home' mom sounds so old-fashioned and lame but it's a full time job in itself. You don't know, honestly, and you shove the thought into the back of your mind for later.

For now, you're focused on your makeup in the bathroom mirror of N'Jadaka's master bedroom, wondering if there's anything you could eat for breakfast downstairs.

Your cell phone, hooked up to a bluetooth earpiece in your ear, is somewhere in the dark bedroom behind you out of sight. From the other end, Sydney laughs before asking you what the noise is coming from your side.

Sighing harshly, you say, "His damn snoring! He doesn't even snore for real but all that wine he drank last night knocked him the hell out."

"Damn, he sound like my granddad."

"I slept 30 minutes, maybe."

"Wait," she pauses. "That big ass house and he don't even have a guest room? A couch?"

You wait a few minutes to finish an eyebrow before responding. "He keeps those doors locked, so, I don't know. And I refuse to sleep downstairs by myself. Those masks and all that art freaks me out. Why can't he just have pixelated pictures of Africa all over the place?"

"Cuz you got that Super Ankh. He got real shit from the Motherland and you gotta suffer for it."

Finishing your makeup, you straighten your black button up blouse and retuck it into your relaxed 'Boyfriend' jeans. Business casual is your  _best_ friend and you don't know what you'd do without it. Sydney bids your farewell so she can get ready for work and as you pull on your Docs you think about that barbecue in July. When you first met the snoring man in front of you.

N'Jadaka has been absolutely useless all night, falling almost straight asleep the second you got to his place. He was face down in the mattress still fully dressed when you had to pour water on him to make him change clothes. It's funny that this happened, though, because wine makes you sleepy too.

"Hey," you say, shaking his bare shoulder. "N. Come let me out."

You do have a key, but you'd feel better about everything if you're at least accompanied to the door. So you try and try and try to wake up the snoring man in front of you but nothing works. Not sprinkling cold water on him, not calling him a 'bitch,' nothing.

Out of options and time, you resort to the stupidest option, sighing out a lie, "Devon called me and said he was gonna rearrange my guts and put me in a wheelchair so i'mma let him."

The snoring stops completely and there's a few moments of passing silence before N'Jadaka groans.

"The fuck you just say?"

Aggravating.


	32. l o n e l y

_[not when you, hold me ](https://youtu.be/3rkIukQlRrc) _

 

* * *

 

4:30 pm. 

It feels like you've been working for three days straight by the time you clock out, hauling your reusable coffee mug and water bottle down the hall toward the elevators. Your coworkers have been very supportive in that they haven't caught an attitude with your constant munching on trail mix or fruit chips, and you think they've suspected you're pregnant but haven't said anything. 

You're tired, but you agree to wait around for Sydney to get all of her stuff together and talk to the manager.  She's trying to get extended time off for Christmas, and you haven't even thought about it yet. Unlike Thanksgiving, you're going to have to head over to your parents' house at some point to exchange gifts and to eat. Usually, their Christmases are pretty lowkey, maybe a few relatives will roll by but for the most part it's food and relaxation. 

It's perfect, because your mom's black eyed peas + cornbread combination will put you in a whole food coma.

Your cell phone vibrates inside your purse and when you check it, you're surprised.

"You got a hangover?" you ask, amused, as you lean against the wall. 

"I thought you was off work an hour ago. Where you at?"

Rolling your eyes, you sigh long and hard into the phone. "I'm still at work, waiting on Sydney."

N'Jadaka tells you to hurry up and get there and you pause at the sound of his voice. At first you thought that he may just have woken up but now that you listen he sounds croaky and gross, like he's been throwing up. 

"N," you go, half-whispering. "What's the matter with you?"

"I'm shootin' that restaurant up," he shoots, ignoring you.

"No you're not."

"I am," he says. "They did this shit on purpose."

He goes off, like you personally gave him food poisoning, and it takes you the absolute longest time to hang up because he won't let you. You must have said a million 'okays' and 'i'm on my ways' by the time you hit the freeway. 

Once again, you prove you care too much for his peanut-headed behind, because you endure the terrible after-work traffic to get to the crowded Whole Foods near his house. He absolutely will not stop calling you and you ignore him after the fifth time, wondering why men act like babies when they get sick. You've had food poisoning a lot dealing with your father's cooking, and each time (after she got done cussing him out) your mother would bring out the same group of foods to make you feel better.

You grab a basket, thinking about how empty N'Jadaka's fridge is and shaking your head. He does too much and you're assuming he's hardly home when you aren't there with him; his kitchen is too big and too nice to be as empty as it is. 

The phone rings again just as you're putting a pack of Gatorade into the basket and with an annoyed sigh you pick up. "What?"

"Don't 'what' me," he snaps, sucking his teeth. "I don't know who the fuck you think you be talkin' to."

"You, nigga," you reply, reaching for a bottle of ginger ale. "Why do you keep calling me ? I told you I was coming."

"Hurry up! I already told you I don't want you outside like that without me."

Another sigh escapes your lips because it wouldn't kill his ass to just say he's worried about you without his idiotic phrasing. His over-protectiveness gets old pretty quick, and it's only been getting worse now that you're carrying his child. 

"I'm trying to help you," you finally say, making your way toward the front. "Because if I was as mean as you, I would've just went home and not paid you any attention."

"Hm."

"Can I check out? Can I do that, you big baby? I'm like 5 minutes away from your subdivision."

He tells you to hurry up again and hangs up, leaving you to wonder what you're going to eat for dinner. You don't have food poisoning, after all, despite the fact that you tasted everything that he ate last night. You don't have much time before you need to go to bed for work in the morning, and that's probably the most annoying thing about it. 

You wonder if your boss will be disappointed if you quit because everything makes you tired lately.

-

 

The sounds of N'Jadaka retching violently in the bathroom are what greets you when you come inside, trying your best to haul all of the grocery bags in with the fewest amount of trips.

"Hey!" you call, huffing as you set everything down. "Are you alive?"

" _Ha-ha_ ," he responds sarcastically. "Shit as long as you took, I almost was."

The toilet flushes, letting you know he's in the downstairs bathroom, and  you pass him on your way to the kitchen with your remedies. He follows you inside wordlessly, and when you get a good look at him in the light you can't help but go ' _aww'_ with a barely suppressed giggle. 

He rolls his eyes at you, going to the faucet to refill his water bottle. 

To say he looks like he's been puking all day is an understatement, with his tired eyes and haggard complexion. Usually his skin has you envious but it's very obvious he's exhausted himself and you feel kind of bad for leaving him so obviously sick. But to be fair, he'd seemed more hungover this morning when you woke him up.

With a little flourish of your arms you begin to showcase your food poisoning haul. N'Jadaka stands, looking very unimpressed, behind you as you do so. 

"Okay," you start. "My dad can't cook for shit unless it's on the grill so sometimes he had me like you are right now; I had to learn how to not die real quick. What'd you eat today?"

He scoffs. "Nothin'."

"What have you been drinking?"

"Water."

"Hm," you go, turning back to face him. "I got you Gatorade. And chicken broth. That always made me feel better. And when you feel like you can actually eat let me know. Do you want me to call off tomorrow?"

Truthfully, you just want an excuse to sleep in.

But N'Jadaka doesn't answer you, because he's too busy staring at you like you've grown an extra eye and when you ask him why he shakes his head. Clearly he isn't used to being 'taken care of' and while you can wax poetic about how sad that is for hours you just need him to be out of your sight and in bed. When you tell him this he says he wasn't in bed and you're confused.

"Where were you?" you ask, frowning. "Out?"

"Shit, layin' on the bathroom floor."

You almost laugh but you can relate to that one too; the bathroom floor is the coldest place in the house at any given moment and sometimes that's just where a fucked-up stomach will have you. Laid all the way out on the tile. 

Annoying him with your condescending  _awws_ you hold your arms out for him to hug you. It's all hesitant, because you hope he doesn't smell like vomit, but luckily for you he doesn't when he finally comes in. Those arms swallow you whole, sliding up your back while the weight of him pushes you back against the countertop. 

"You're supposed to be takin' care of me," you say, face pressed into his shoulder. He smells a little of sweat and mouthwash. "I'm the one carryin'."

"You  not about to remind me every five seconds."

You pull away from him then, hitting him on the arm as you go back to putting the groceries away. "The hell I ain't. And you better be my personal servant because I'm not about to be walking around here barefoot making you and your boys sandwiches and getting y'all beers and shit."

Scoffing, he makes it to the doorway before going, "I ain't about to deal with yo loud ass friends runnin' around here tryin' to tell  _me_ how to take care of you neither."

"We'll see," you say. "Go take a bath."

He tells you to watch your mouth as he makes his way up the stairs, and you shout up that if he stops being an asshole you'll join him. That bathtub of his is big enough for several people and sometimes you wonder if he's ever had girls in there with him before you. It's something you can't think about too hard because you'll never want to step foot inside otherwise. 

There's a few bath bombs and salts still upstairs from your last 'sleepover;' and you silently dare him to have thrown them away.

 

The bathwater is running by the time you make it up with a thermos full of chicken broth. You've become an expert at making it actually taste like something, careful not to make it too heavy or too salty; you weren't kidding when you expressed how close to death your father had you as a kid sometimes.

You can hear him now;  _well hell, I ain't think it was nothin' wrong with it. I ain't get sick!_

And then your mom would threaten to cut him. Good times.

The broth is piping hot so you feel fine leaving it on the nightstand, finding the sight in front of you more interesting than the raggedy mess that is the bed. 

N'Jadaka has completely shed all of his clothes save for his basketball shorts and is sitting on the edge of the large tub when you enter the bathroom, his back to you and head hung low. He's not moving when you approach him, and you begin to reach a hand out toward him when something inside you makes you stop.

"Oh my god," you mutter to yourself, loud enough for N'Jadaka to hear and turn toward you. 

You were doing fine all day and all of yesterday, but as of right now, that fruit-sized ball inside you catches an entire attitude and you feel like you've eaten a raw chunk of poultry.

Your heavy lunch from the on-site cafe at work is coming up fast and N'Jadaka is blocking your way to the toilet in preparation for his  _own_ sickness. You pace, not knowing where to go until you say 'fuck it' and head toward the toilet anyway. Like an asshole, he pushes you away as if you were actually going to throw up on him and you slip, socks sliding on the slick tile. Your legs go one way and the rest of you go the other, culminating in a sickening  _SMACK_ on the hard floor that feels like it rattles your brain. 

There's no time to react because you're too busy crawling over to the toilet bowl and retching into it. It's too much for the idiot father of your child and he disappears into his bedroom in a mad dash for the bathroom across the hall. The pregnancy books you've been reading said most morning sickness symptoms end after about 14 weeks and you groan  because that's still a few weeks away. 

You get cleaned up in no time, shedding your soiled blouse and dropping a few bath bombs into the tub to get the bathroom smelling better. Your pants go next, and habit has you turning to the side to examine your stomach. 

The bump hasn't changed much, but you can tell that you're pregnant despite your stomach still resembling itself whenever you eat a big dinner. You have another appointment soon, before Christmas, and Ramirez told you by then you're going to really look it.

N'Jadaka appears behind you , pausing to shut the faucet off before approaching where you stand in the mirror. All you do is look at him before saying, "My head hurts."

"My bad."

"I should throw up in your eyes."

He snorts. "I said, 'my bad,' damn."

"Is that a 'sorry'?  _I'm so sorry, for nearly cracking your head open on this floor, _____. I still think we the same size for some reason so I treat you like the big brolic ass nigga that I am."_

Squinting at you, he asks, "That's how you think I sound?"

" _That's how you think I sound?"_

You go back to staring at yourself in the mirror, prodding and primping and touching your sore breasts with a painful wince. Another reason not to want to go to work is the fact that you don't want to wear bras lately. You don't want to do  _anything_ lately but sleep. 

On the floor, your cell phone vibrates in the back pocket of your jeans, displaying one message from your manager.

_Sydney told me why you've been so tired. Why don't you take the week off and we can discuss maternity leave. ;-)_

You snort at his emoticon usage, wondering how long Sydney's loudmouthed ass had to talk to him to get him to take it easy on you like this. He's a nice, understanding man all things considered, and you're sure he'd rather you be off than collapse on premises but still. 

Still, you text Sydney and tell her to keep her mouth shut to anyone else. Especially around her family. All it takes is one, and then the news will be in Uganda by morning.

"C'mere," says that irritatingly deep voice from behind you. "I need you to sit down somewhere."

"Don't tell me what to do," you mutter angrily, still annoyed that he made you fall. Accident or not. " _You_ go sit down somewhere so you can be better tomorrow."

He raises an eyebrow at you and you scoff because it's obvious. 

"I'm horny 24 fucking 7, bro," you admit, shaking your head. "Apparently that's normal during pregnancy but it's pissing me off."

You watch him turn around and open the shower door. The bath must be for you and you refuse to let yourself feel happy at the thought. 

"That's why you had a attitude? You needed some dick?"

"Yeah but now I don't want yours any more."

Silently, you drop the rest of your clothes and descend into the steaming pink water with your cell carefully balanced in one hand. Anything else N'Jadaka says gets drowned out by the lofi hip hop playlist you start. You have an attitude and you're horny, and your acrylics are too long for you to even attempt to pleasure yourself and you just want to cuss somebody out.

You can't drink, can't smoke, can't do anything but be pregnant and watch the steam fill up the bathroom around you. The glass doors in that beautiful shower gradually fog up, blocking your view more and more of N'Jadaka as he washes up. Still, you watch like he owes you a show, leaning back as far as you can in the tub without sinking underneath. 

It's funny how that fool managed to take you from trying to help him to pissing you off, made all the more terrible by his apparent food poisoning and your morning sickness. 

Fuck a man you miss your vibrator.

 

-

 

You wake up sweating, mad and wanting to fight even still because you're hot. There's an oversized tee riding up to your chest and what feels like several meters of blankets ontop of you and it takes a minute to realize you haven't been buried alive. 

Trying to move, you groan out an insult that the man next to you definitely hears. He gives you one right back. 

"Shut up," you mumble, kicking off the comforter. The cool air feels like heaven on your bare legs. 

N'Jadaka is staring at his cell phone next to you, shirtless above the sheets and probably naked underneath. The furrow of his brow indicates that he hasn't been asleep yet, and closer inspection at the clock on the nightstand reveals that it's around three in the morning. He tells you that you fell asleep in the tub with a whole attitude and he damn near killed himself trying to get to you when he opened the shower door to find nothing but  bathwater and a hand hanging over the edge.

You hum at this, surprised at how tired you really were, only to face the annoyed look he shoots you. 

"I can't leave yo goofy ass alone," he seethes, nudging you away from him. "Make me sick."

"You make  _me_ sick. Maybe if you wasn't being a bitch and pushing me around you could've been in that bath with me."

"I ran the shit for you!" he exclaims. "I'm being nice even though my stomach was on 10 and here yo mean ass come ruinin' everything."

Rolling your eyes, you go ahead and ask, "Well, did you drink that broth?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Fuck you mean, 'and'?" he goes, scoffing. "I drank it."

"Fuck you, hood ass nigga."

"Fuck  _you,_ bougie ass-"

You hop up, then, pushing him as hard as you can as you laugh with a warning that he better not call you a bitch even as a joke. To your surprise, he cracks a smile at this, reaching out to put you in a headlock when you get too close. This turns into play wrestling that you hope won't end in an actual injury for you because he's rough.

It takes a second to adjust to being under him like you are, frowning that he got you pinned in only a few seconds flat. The tv is on like always, casting a light into the dark room that's so bright it's impossible to sleep with. You must have gotten used to it, because N'Jadaka never turns it off at night.

He's just staring down at you, this you can see clearly with the help of the infomercial on in front of you and you don't know how to react. All of that playful banter and the attitude you had is gone now, replaced by the exhaustion you've come to get used to. 

Quietly, almost pitifully, you whisper, "I'm tired," to which N'Jadaka silently presses those full lips to your forehead. You're rarely afforded times when he's this gentle with you and each time you feel special because you just know this isn't something many people see from him.

Unwarranted, you get a string of kisses around your face and neck yet none of them seem especially sexual just full of need; of what you don't know. He doesn't do anything more but stare at you afterwards, taking a rough hand and playing with one of your ears like he just has to be touching you in some way.  It tickles, but feels nice too so you don't complain.

"I need you to listen to me, smart ass," he says, frowning deeper. The croak in his voice is gone so his stomach must have calmed down. 

"Okay."

"You; this," he palms your stomach with his other hand. "Is all me. Mine. And niggas know that now."

"Okay."

"I need you to be smarter than you are and before you catch a attitude i'm not callin' you stupid; you just...scatterbrained. I mean keep the doors  _locked_ when you by yourself. Keep King with you and stop leavin' him over here if you at home. Some people got problems with me and you basically got a target painted on you the second I decided to keep you around."

This makes you frown and you half-jokingly ask him to wipe the target off. If he's trying to make you even more anxious than you already are it's working.

"And," he continues. "It gets around that I got a kid that target only gets bigger so imma need you to stay ready."

"What does that mean?" you ask nervously.

"It means you need to stay ready for shit, like I said. That gun I gave you better be strapped to you at all times  and I don't give a damn how much you don't like em; I'm teaching you to use it."

Defeated, you mumble an affirmative because you knew this was coming sooner or later. You suppose it can't hurt you to learn how to defend yourself from the best, but the idea of using what you'll learn is what scares you. You're just you, normal. You're not an Avenger or an XMen or any kind of special ops agent; you're just a pregnant girl trying to make it in a noisy, chaotic world. Nothing would  _really_ stop someone from grabbing you again like they did at the museum and it's unrealistic to be up under N'Jadaka all the time. You feel this is all apart of the fine print of being with someone like him; a contract you were locked into before you even realized what was happening. 

Still, you want him to stop talking about these hypotheticals because your anxiety is spiking through the roof. Just as you open your mouth to express this he looks away from you, still idly rubbing your ear inbetween a thumb and forefinger.

"I'm not tryin' to lose you," he shoots, frowning. "It's different wit' you, lil bit. Before that, I don't know...I'm not really feelin' that anymore."

"Feeling what?" You ask, ignoring how numb your right ear is becoming. It's a small price to pay for this late night whim to get him to open up a little more. You think the mall fiasco has a part to play in this; that fear he must have felt during.

"Goin' to clubs, inviting some chick up to VIP, Hennessey, fuck, repeat. One of em would catch feelings then I had to kick her out, shit was borin'."

"I'm boring," you say wryly, a smile pulling at your lips. "And you're an asshole, Heartbreaker."

"It is what it is."

You chuckle at this, wondering if you're lucky or perhaps the very opposite to have caught his eye back at that barbecue. Why did the cure to your loneliness bring with it a plethora of other problems? Where's the inbetween? The perfect mixture? N'Jadaka gets off you, leaving you to ponder this with your eyes to the dark ceiling above you. 

His previous way of doing things; endless hookup after hookup seems like it was much lonelier than your solitary existence, and you nearly ask him how alone he felt when he was in bed with girls he didn't care about. 

Was it as lonely as you felt with Devon? Or was  _he_ the Devon in those situations, ruining girl after girl after girl with his cold indifference because his whims hadn't allowed him to even try to understand any of them? You still don't think he understands you very well, and you definitely don't get him either, but you have to thank T'Challa for it all at the end of the day. For attempting, anyway, to right a wrong he has no obligation to because it set this fool that won't leave your ear alone hurtling toward that damn barbecue. 

You don't want to get fake deep or anything, but you appreciate what the winds of fate have whipped into your life. Because even if this doesn't work out and the both of you end up lonely again, at least you got the chance to try not to be for a little while.

"Okay stop touching me."


	33. ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> night tempo - windy summer is the track that gets referenced here.

 

The dreams you have are full of stress, albeit in a happier way than they normally are. You dream of a baby in your arms but every time you try and see if they're a boy or a girl something happens to distract you. They don't have a name, only 'Baby,' but either way the sight of them has you in tears. Happy tears, relieved tears, tears of fear and anxiety too. The baby shower is during the beginnings of summer and there are flowers and the freshest breeze coming in from the open windows.

Everyone is there, and you're happy.

You wake  up with a start, flinching and looking around with your eyes bugged out wide at the unfamiliar sensation on your feet. Your immediate reaction is to pull away but a pair of strong hands keep you from going anywhere and when you wipe your eyes you can't believe what you're seeing.

"What are you-"

N'Jadaka, rather boredly, is taking a nail clipper to your feet and when you ask again in horror he sucks his teeth. God, if you had a dollar every time he made that damn noise around you ( _because_ of you) you'd be richer than him. It's too early for you and too bright so you pull a pillow over your head as you wait for any kind of logical statement to come out of his mouth that tells you why he's cutting your toenails in your sleep. 

"What. Are-"

"These shits was cuttin' me last night," he says angrily. "You need to do better."

"Excuse me." It's true, you haven't gotten a pedicure lately, but you hadn't noticed your toenails getting so long. Either way, if you were cutting him he should've shut up and took it because he almost brained you last night and you're not going to let him forget it. 

Still, you'll allow this because you don't want to do it yourself, and when he makes a comment about your feet being 'too pretty' to be slicing up the sheets you try to kick him. He gets that teasing look on his face that you like, and you try not to look too long because he looks like a God in the mornings sometimes. Voice husky, dreads all over the place and more often than not-no shirt; it's sin and you hate it. 

"Look at you," he says, playful cadence in his voice. "You just woke up and you got a attitude. Too pretty for all that."

"Shut up," you go, giggling into the pillow as you vainly try to go back to sleep. "Ugh my hair is a fuckin' mess, dude."

"Ain't my fault you almost drowned, ' _dude.'_ _"_

"Leave me alone, bro," you go, continuing your refusal to call him any kinds of sweet names. "If I knew my feet were so pretty I would've been making money on the side selling pics on the internet. God knows I got DMs askin' for it."

You feel him squeeze your left foot. "And you better not show em; these is mine too."

"Shut up."

After clipping the final nail, N'Jadaka stands up, but not before smacking one of your feet like the petty child that he is. He disappears into the bathroom to no doubt pee with the door open so you roll back over to check the time. Your cell phone reads  _8:23 AM_ and that's proof that you're up too early. All you can feel in your body is hunger and the beginnings of a headache, and that throws you for a loop. There are things you need to do, stuff to buy, and hair to be fixed so with a groan you swing your feet over the edge.

It feels like it takes forever to complete your extensive morning routine, and by the time you're slapping on some Everyday makeup you feel like hours have passed. Still, you think you look cute in your leggings and trusty Doc Martens. It'd help if you had a top that was more than a sports bra; and you'd wear it out if it wasn't so cool outside. 

King spooks you on your way out of the bathroom, wagging that rapid fire tail of his and doing that little happy dance dogs do that makes you want to cry. You feel like you haven't been giving him much attention lately so you decide to make it up to him by taking him to the dog park later. 

The collar that you picked out from the store is gone, replaced by another thick gold chain that fits his sturdy neck so perfect you wonder if it was made for dogs in the first place. N'Jadaka is annoying, and you hate to admit it, but your dog looks cool as hell. 

He'd look cooler with his floppy ears, though. 

On the way down the stairs you pull on N'Jadaka's favorite black hoodie, pressing the sleeves to your face and breathing in the scent of his cologne. No matter how many times he washes it you don't think the smell of him will ever leave it. That's why you tell him you're stealing it back when you find him reclining on the couch in the living room.

He gives you an aside glance before continuing his careful rolling of a blunt that you can't have. At first you thought it'd be fine but after a phone call to Ramirez she flat out kept it real and said that some research suggests it'd cause harm but no one really knows how much. That there's 'too much going on' in marijuana so you'd be better off waiting until post-birth. 

It's not like you indulged very often anyway, but you can't lie and say that whatever shit N'Jadaka smokes has you on the fluffiest of clouds.

All he says is, "No," before reaching for the lighter. 

"I didn't even ask," you retort, folding you arms. "And shut up! I'm leaving anyway."

He nods, slow, slouching in his seat. "Where you goin'?"

"Get my hair done, I guess. And I have some stuff to buy so maybe I'll go to Target."

You just watch him for a bit before remembering his affliction from the night before. Nearly amused, you put your chin on his sturdy shoulder to tease him about it. 

"Hey," you go, pointing to the blunt in his hand. "Don't you have food poisoning? You shouldn't be doing anything except staying hydrated and resting."

"Imma be alright," is his only response, like you're absurd for implying otherwise. And sure, he's probably had food poisoning tons of times, been knocking on death's door on many others; but it's bugging you that he hasn't even eaten breakfast yet and he's about to smoke. You're stubborn, and you like things done how they should be and before you know it you've reached over and yanked the blunt from inbetween N'Jadaka's fingers. 

But now you have no idea what to do with it without destroying it so you hesitate for a second before scurrying up the stairs as fast as you can. He's yelling at you, calling you annoying but you don't care because you're already in the bedroom and heading straight for the drawer on his side. It's the one where he always seems to pull endless blunts from in the first place but when you pull it open you find nothing but a gun, a few stray bullets, and an envelope.

You think this is odd, because the bullets are actually just casings now that you look at them, and the envelope is faded and worn. What looks like old photos are sticking out, not enough for you to see what's in them, just enough to know that they're film; probably taken on a cheap disposable camera. Something tells you you shouldn't be looking at this, and you damn sure shouldn't touch it, so you hurriedly close the drawer so hard the nightstand rattles. N'Jadaka makes his presence known, then, grabbing you around the waist and shocking you into screeching like you've been stabbed. He flinches himself, turning you around to face him with a declaration to announce.

"You so damn nosy. And irritating." He snatches it back from you.

"Whatever," you say, voice shaking. "Excuse me for acting like I care what you do."

"Yeah, excuse you."

"I hope you throw up your whole digestive track, idiot. Dumbass. Fool-"

He just watches you with this dumb look on his face as you leave the room, calling him all kinds of names because he won't let you worry about him. He should know by now that everything irritates you more than ever, and if you're so 'mean' he should be trying to please you at all times. 

 

-

 

You feel bad when you come back, though, hair freshly done in jumbo box braids and arms full of a whole crepe cake from a bakery nearby. It's cherry, and you've been craving it since you placed an order for it during your hair appointment. 

In your other hand is a reusable shopping bag full of prenatal vitamins and a some toiletries you've been needing. Staying over N'Jadaka's house usually means using his stuff and you're over it.

The tv is on in the living room, but he's nowhere in sight. It's on mute, which is funny, and there's loud music bumping from somewhere. He isn't in the kitchen either, but when you circle back around toward the front you hear that the sound is coming from the garage. Peeking inside through the side door, you almost gasp at the sight of him on all fours, one arm supporting himself as he uses the other to lift a heavy weight over and over again.

He's sweating so much he looks like a glazed doughnut, and each grunting lift he makes causes a ripple effect through the muscles in his back that nearly has you on the floor. The music is so loud you're sure he hasn't heard you come in, but you don't mind so long as you're able to watch this in action.

He does about ten more with his left arm before groaning out a expletive of some sort you're sure. Dropping the weight he moves to stand up, flinching a bit once he sees you pressed up against the screen door. There's power in the fact that you managed to sneak up on him of all people. But now that you're caught you decide to approach, ignoring the way he's staring you down with that look in his eye. 

You know he loves when you have braids. 

"Hey, thickness," you say, trying not to be so obvious as you ogle him. "Did you throw up your guts like I told you to?"

"Nah, smartass," he says back, tilting his head down at you. "You fixed that nappy-ass head, I see."

Mouth open, you haul back and shove him with one hand as he laughs at your shocked face. You recoil afterwards, hand slick with the sweat dripping off him and dash back into the house to wash your hands. He's still chuckling at you when you turn the kitchen faucet on, cutting the music off and throwing the whole house into an ear ringing silence. The stairs creek as he goes up them, leaving you to wonder if you should join him.

Joining someone in the shower is only really 'sexy' when it's a normal shower. Otherwise, it's kind of....

Especially when one party is very sweaty and gross. There's nothing all that sexy about getting clean when you really need to, so you decide to try and make something for dinner. You had half a mind to buy takeout on the way back but somehow you find yourself being nice and thinking of N'Jadaka for whatever reason. 

Going by the kitchen being untouched, he hasn't eaten, and when you look in the fridge you find that all he seems to have ingested is Gatorade. Of course. You roll your eyes at the containers of grilled chicken, rice, and broccoli on the second shelf because they're all labeled but the one for today hasn't been touched.

The longer you stand there the longer you don't want anything because the idea of smelling meat cooking makes you nauseous. However, you know that you can't just  _eat_ takeout every day of your pregnancy for the remainder of it. You could always hire a personal chef to send you meals; you see ads for them on Instagram all the time. 

It takes you 20 minutes to decide you'd rather just eat cake, but you're mad about it as you cut a fat slice for yourself and put the cake back into the refrigerator. Not knowing what to eat and not knowing what will make you sick or not isn't it. Getting food poisoning while pregnant isn't a wave you want to ride.

 The house phone rings just as you rinse a fork off, echoing so loudly through the house it scares you, and it's followed closely by the doorbell. King starts barking, zooming in from out of nowhere toward the door and he sounds like Hell within these walls. If anyone is stupid enough to approach with a pit bull barking like  _that_ deserves whatever they get coming to them.

And King is still a baby, not even a year old. 

"The door-" is all you can get out before N'Jadaka comes thumping down the stairs to answer whoever is bold enough to be spamming the doorbell like this. Catching a glimpse of him, you frown at his fit; black jeans, black tee, gold jewelry and a pair of his many pristine sneakers isn't usually 'lazing around the house' attire. 

Still, you stay seated at the kitchen island, staring at the gorgeous marble on the surface as you stab a piece of crepe cake with a fork. There's about 10 super-thin layers to it, all cherry red and white cream with dark-cherry glaze drizzled ontop. It looked good, it  _smelled_ good, but the first bite has you waiting for trouble just in case you can taste red food coloring. 

Instead, your mouth explodes, immediately watering at the combination of the sweet cream and the tart cherry glaze and you're just glad no one is around to see you basically drool out the side of your mouth. It's delicious, but it has you pressing a finger to that spot under your jaw as if it's going to help that sting go away.

You still don't know who's at the door, other than that it's gone weirdly silent, so against your better judgement you go to peek around the corner curiously. Clearly you've missed all of the interaction because all you manage to see is N'Jadaka rudely shove something into the hands of one of his boys. He then proceeds to call him a 'hoe' to which the few other men standing behind him start to holler like this is the funniest joke they've ever heard.

They all file into the living room, clearly about to go somewhere, already loud before they've even gotten to their destination. On closer inspection it looks like N'Jadaka gave him some condoms, which would explain the 'hoe' comment and you let out a small giggle before you can stop it. Several heads look in your direction and you slowly slink back into the kitchen to return to your expensive, "dinner."

You still don't know their names, or what they do, or what N'Jadaka even does, but when he enters the kitchen you pretend like you weren't spying. He's pulled on a jacket now, watching you eat like he's having second thoughts about it all.

Just like he did at that restaurant.

"Where are you going?" you ask, licking a spot of whipped cream off of one finger. "You're leaving me in here by myself?"

He snorts, amused, before leaning against the island across from you. "My house is safer than that apartment with one lock so-"

You just look at him through your lashes, wondering if that 'perceived innocence' shit Kayla mentioned was true. Sometimes the way he looks at you, like he wants to ruin you, makes you wonder if the only way you could've possibly gotten this far was because you happened to look like a Good Girl. 

This, has you a little less worried about the fact that you  _know_ he's about to be somewhere where there's women; much like that night you called him and someone else picked up. Still, you offer only a few words to him as you circle the counter, one hand holding your plate and the other spreading itself over his firm chest. 

"Behave," you say, and he snickers as you pass him, but you don't look back at that shit eating grin because then you've lost.

His boys shoot you some hellos, some dripping in admiration of your beauty you're sure, because N'Jadaka sucks his teeth from behind you like he has a problem with it. You wave hello all the same, calling King to you as you make your way up the stairs.  

The only well-behaved one in the bunch is the one that nearly takes you out trying to get to the food in your hands but he's still miles above the ones hooting and hollering downstairs.

 

-

 

You're deep in the middle of another dream when that deja vu strikes again, shocking you awake not with your feet being messed with but with the hot, sticky, feeling of sloppy kisses on your neck.

Sleeping over N'Jadaka's house was an idea you thought was a good one, mostly to ease your anxiety and to have access to his tub but now you're beginning to think it's not worth it if he keeps waking you up like this. On one hand, those soup coolers pressing themselves on any parts of your body is heaven, but on the other, it's 2 in the morning and he smells like weed. 

"Ugh, what?" you groan, elbowing him away from you. 

"Get up," he says, breath hot against the back of your neck. He's been drinking too, you smell the beer. "I'm hungry as fuck."

"Then eat! And leave me alone!"

Ignoring you completely, he tells you that the car is running as he gets up. You're left seething in bed at the fact that your stomach actually growls, reminding you that you haven't eaten anything but a slice of cake in the past few hours. From the hall you hear him shout that he's going to IHOP and you let out another groan because you're already swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. 

When you make it down to his car you're wearing his hoodie again, bare legs and your docs because you were too sleepy to see your leggings in the dim light of the bedroom. The heated seats are on and you jolt a bit as you slide into the passenger's seat; it feels like it's about 40 out.

"Yeah, I bet ya fast ass is chilly, huh."

"Shut up, Erik," you say, expecting the jump of his eyebrows.

"Oh so I'm Erik?"

"Yep. Shouldn't have woke me up smelling like you had a good time without me."

He calls you annoying as he backs out of the driveway, narrowly missing your truck as he does so. You don't know why he drives like a maniac but you can only guess it's going to get worse now that the two of you are out on the roads so late. 

All of the houses you pass are dark (as they should be), no signs of life in the entirety of the neighborhood save for the rumbling of N'Jadaka's sports car as he speeds around every twist and turn like a bat out of hell. You're reminded briefly of the day you were kidnapped, and he'd sped around the parking lot of the museum with you on his lap. You were screaming with laughter like you were on a rollercoaster, and he'd looked at you like you were the sun. 

You think about his eyes on you a lot, and you've been dwelling on it a lot more lately; now that you're pregnant. Maybe you're starting to feel the disconnect, because it hasn't been that long and you don't know that much about him still; but relationships have been built on rockier foundations. 

Your late night contemplation gets cut short by N'Jadaka's inquiry about you feeling alright, and you shrug in response with no clue how to answer.

"Nothing's wrong," you say sleepily, head leaned back against the seat. "I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"About you."

You look at him, then, noticing the quick tense of his jaw that lets you know that he's worried about what you mean and at this you have to laugh. He's stopped at a light but you keep staring at the side of his head, studying his features from his hair to his nose to those lips of his. You don't know why you're finding him so suddenly fascinating, but you think a lot of it has to do with the questions that are buzzing around in your brain. You're sure he has some for you, but the difference between the two of you is that you're ready to answer whichever ones he has. 

He doesn't say anything , and neither do you, opting instead to reach forward to connect your phone to his radio. You're not feeling the heavy west coast rap he usually bumps in his car, scrolling through your music to find your favorite vice to relax you when you need it.

Plus, lo fi hip hop with an 80s tint fits a night ride much better than dudes screaming about them 'wishing a nigga would'; although that song has you bopping around the house whenever you catch it coming from the garage  during N'Jadaka's workout sessions. 

Halfway through a song, he glances over at you with a frown. 

"You listen to this sad shit?" he goes, turning his nose up. 

You nod, even though he isn't looking at you, before saying, "Helps me think. You should try it sometimes."

"Hm. I think enough about shit.."

"Like how our people are still shackled by invisible chains?"

You snicker as he looks down at you, not amused by your cheeky poking at the 'real shit' he preaches to you unsolicited sometimes. He's so annoying, but you find it very endearing and the smile you offer him says that and more. 

The mellow beats play on, and you shift your gaze to the lights of the buildings downtown as you pass them. It doesn't matter what time it is in the city; there's never a moment that isn't lit up like a holiday, showing you people you'd normally never see during waking hours. You have to wonder what IHOP N'Jadaka plans on going to, as the two closest by he seems to have purposely  avoided. 

Maybe they have dirty kitchens or something, because you know too well that a restaurant like IHOP is only as good as it's surroundings sometimes. Moreso than normal restaurants. Much like a Denny's; it's so hard to get a good one.

N'Jadaka suddenly presses a button on the screen in front of the both of you, changing the song in a frustrated huff and you think that maybe it was doing the job. Funnily enough, your shuffle hits you with a happier jam; some Japanese city pop song that reminds you of old school anime. And you  _know_ he likes anime because you've caught him staring at old episodes of Dragonball with an almost trance-like concentration. 

This song makes you so happy and so free, and you have no idea what the woman is saying as she sings. Only that you feel like riding down the highway in summer with the top down and your braids whipping around you. 

So you turn it up, despite N'Jadaka's raised eyebrows, holding your arms straight up at the saxophone screaming through the speakers. That bass guitar, the horns, the slight remixing of the vocals is very evocative and you feel like releasing something; of what you don't know. All you do know is that you're just grooving, ignoring the way the man next to you is laughing and calling you goofy because it's working and he doesn't get it. The window is down on your side and some people in another car are looking at you in amusement as you feel every note of the instrumental with your eyes closed.

You needed this cathartic moment to just let go of all that frustration and stress bubbling in your stomach from the past few days. It's not summer, but it's windy, and it'll just have to do for now because that's the only english lyric in the entire song and you'll repeat it as much as you want to.

By the time it ends, he tells you that was the longest 3 minutes and 20 seconds of his life and you shove a middle finger in his face as you get ready to turn the next one up even louder.

He says something in Xhosa as you do so, grinning, and when  you turn the radio back down to ask what he said he shakes his head and looks back to the road.

 The smile is still playing on his lips long after the next song ends and you're smiling too, not even thinking about that damn IHOP anymore. 

But you're wondering what he said, and why he didn't want you to know what it was. 

 

-

 

Summer is still on your mind and on your lips in the cold booth of the cleanest IHOP you've ever seen. It's a part of some hotel, all glass windows that extend high into the night sky. There are a few people inside, but for the most part you and your 'date' are alone with the bored looking waitress and her bubblegum. 

He's staring down at the menu when you make him promise to take you on more night rides like this. Especially whenever he thinks you need it; or when he needs it. 

"I got you," is all he mumbles as his eyes scan the laminated menu in front of him. You already know what you want and you fully intend on rushing him as you call the waitress over. She takes your order with a semblance of an attitude, only really looking alive once N'Jadaka opens his mouth. Figures.

But you're in no mood to do anything but keep smiling, to which N'Jadaka has something to say.

"What you over there smilin' for?" he asks, leaning back into the booth. His legs knock into yours under the table. 

"I don't know," you admit, shrugging. "It was the music, I guess. I told you it helps me think."

"Hm."

"The slow, lo-fi beats is good for me when I just want to reflect I guess. I do my best thinking when I drive by myself but I'm too anxious to do that at night, so..-" You trail off before perking back up. "It's just nice to listen to songs with no one talkin'. But like, the other music just makes feel-"

"-Goofy?" he interjects, scrolling through his cell phone.

"No! I don't know how to explain it! I think of summer and fun and happiness and shit like that. Flowers, and barbecues and smelling the smoke from the grill..Funk music my dad likes to listen to. It's, I don't know-"

This time he interrupts with something more helpful, shooting out a, "Evocative?" to which you gasp and point at him.

"Thanks, MIT grad," you say reaching over to nudge him for that one. 

"Welcome," he says, clearly amused. 

You start rambling about summertime and being happy that your baby will be born during your favorite season and all the while N'Jadaka just listens. It's nice, because you don't think you've had much time to just ramble off the noise that fills your brain. Definitely not to him of all people. And he is a good listener, all things considered, but you just don't know how much of him is actually  _listening_ or him wishing you'd hurry up and be quiet. 

So you shift the topic to him for a bit, leaning back to allow your food to be placed in front of you without a single glance at the waitress. She doesn't care, because she's too busy smiling at N'Jadaka, who hasn't taken his eyes off you. 

As it should be.

His gaze breaks only to allow him to  reach for the syrup for his pancakes, and in the process you nervously swirl your straw around in your glass of water. 

"Hey..."

He quirks an eyebrow to indicate that he's listening, eyes still focused on preparing his food to be inhaled. You haven't touched your own plate yet, wanting so badly to get this question out in a way that'll give you some answers. You're carrying his child and yet...

"What's your last name?" you ask, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it all. You know it can't be 'Stevens', but you suppose that you can't rule anything out. He very well could be a N'Jadaka Stevens and it wouldn't surprise you one bit. 

"Stevens."

"No it's not," you say, not sure if he's kidding or not. You wait for him to say otherwise but he doesn't change his facial expression; staring at you blankly with slightly red eyes as he chews and swallows a meticulously cut chunk of pancake. 

The two of you hold this staring contest for a good few more seconds before he nods down at your plate with a remark that it's going to get cold. 

Confused as to what just happened, you cut a piece of your Belgian waffle and stare at it as if it's going to tell you if 'Stevens' is really his last name. Your facial expression must be troubled as hell because he laughs at you, cutting the silence with a knife.

"Don't trip, baby, you look like you about to do a college final."

"You  _are_  a college final, nigga. I can't read you for shit."

"You don't even speak my language," he says wryly, smirking at you. "You get a D-, but that ass gets a A."

"Shut  _up!_ "

 

 

 

 


	34. 14 weeks

14 weeks.

14 weeks and you're nervous for all of the wrong reasons. Despite the fact that your energy seems to have returned and your appetite too, you just feel overwhelmed by all of the things happening around you.

Truthfully, you haven't seen N'Jadaka in a week or so, your schedules conflicting so much it's hard to find time to make it over there. And sure, your girls have been more than happy to run around with you to dentist appointments and doctors appointments at the hospital but you would like a hug from those thick arms to ease you into your second trimester. 

Ramirez is already referring you to other doctors and giving you names of pediatricians and half of the anxiety comes from not knowing the people who are prodding at you anymore. All these talks of midwives and who will be in the room with you during labor has you freaked out and you just wish Ramirez could be there.

She says she'll try.

Ontop of it all, Christmas is in a week and you haven't told your parents (or anyone) the news. The only people who know definitively that you're going through with the pregnancy are Sydney, Kayla, and N'Jadaka. 

But still, you're nervous as you pull into your parking space because the ultrasound tech at the hospital said she was able to tell the sex of your baby. You covered your ears as if she would blurt it out, and she slid you an envelope afterwards with a wink and a 'just in case.' It sits folded up in your purse, untouched, because you can't decide when to look. Kayla said you should look now, but Sydney thinks you should wait until Christmas and have a Reveal Party.

The idea makes you roll your eyes. Sure, you'll reveal it then but having all of that fanfare and party games and whatnot seems silly. They can save it for the baby shower they  _think_ they're planning without you.

But you can't forget the biggest stressor of them all; this meeting with T'Challa's mother that's looming above you like a big question mark. You haven't heard anything, and you're sure that if N'Jadaka has, he'd tell you. It's just now, it's hard to hide the fact that you're pregnant.

The pregnancy app on your phone says you should start an exercise regimen soon, maybe some walking, but you've had your eyes on a yoga class downtown that N'Jadaka will definitely make fun of you for. It's completely rational, you think, to be concerned with not being flexible enough. It also told you to sleep on your side soon and that's the hardest part of it all. If you can't sleep like you're freefalling through the earth with one leg hitched up and both arms under the pillows then what the hell is the point?

You let out a sigh as you slide your key into your apartment lock, breath hitching hard in your throat at the presence of N'Jadaka sleeping on your couch. He's sitting with his chin in his chest, arms folded tight with his legs spread open and it looks like the most uncomfortable position in the world. You can just feel the residual neck pain, which is funny because you could use a massage yourself.

He wakes up when you shut the door, exhaling sharply through his nose in a way that lets you know he was out for a while.

"Hey," you say, completely used to his popping up in your living quarters at this point. "Why didn't you just go in the room?"

Eyes still closed, he shrugs, looking angry as he lets his head rest onto the back of your couch. The stiffness of his body is beginning to make you ache so you tell him to come on as you begin shedding clothes. It's laundry day so you don't say anything about his outside clothes touching your sheets as he climbs into it wordlessly. He pulls you with him, wrapping his arms around you and putting you in that Safe Grip you needed all morning. 

You're warm and cozy, and he's  _already_ snoring with his arms locked so tight around you you start getting second thoughts about all this. If you fall asleep you know you're going to wake up wanting to fight but you do all the same. All of that energy that came back decides to leave you the second you hear him snoring above you.

Everything comes in threes, because N'Jadaka wakes you from your nap yet again with his inability to keep his hands off you. This time, you wake up slowly, just enough to realize that maybe he didn't mean to wake you. He's caught, and you think it's so cute that he's pressing kisses to your stomach and you betray your consciousness by laughing.

"That tickles," you say, looking down at him. "Stop."

He does it again anyway before saying, "You stop. All that movin' you do in your sleep gets on my nerves."

"What was I doing?"

Moving your shirt back down you shift your weight so you're not so buried underneath him. He has a lot of nerve acting like you really have a choice when he hems you up like that. 

The bed creaks as the two of you move, and you watch N'Jadaka stare at you like he's expecting you to break as you do so. There's no way for you to know what you do in your sleep but according to him you were rubbing your stomach and frowning all the way up and it had the audacity to 'annoy' him. 

It's true, your stomach has been feeling tight and uncomfortable lately, but mostly you've been ignoring it on the guise that if it were serious Ramirez wouldn't have just waved it off when you mentioned it. 

It's cute that he's so skittish and overprotective (until it isn't), but you assure him that your discomfort isn't anything to worry about. You also slide in that you're going to dot his eye if he keeps waking you up.

"You ain't doin' shit," he goes, re-lifting your tee. "Is she?"

It takes you a second to realize he's talking to your stomach and not 'you,' and maybe you'd find it cute if he didn't immediately say  **he's** going to 'pull bitches like his daddy.'

"You don't know if it's a boy," you say, lightly smacking him on the side of the head. "And shut up, fool! Don't get beat up."

"It's a boy," he says bluntly as if he knows; and he speaks with so much conviction that you hesitate for a second as if he could actually know. You stutter before disagreeing that you think it's a girl, because you can't physically handle a boy getting on your nerves like N'Jadaka does. 

This starts an argument that only ends when you smack him with a pillow and demand to know where he's even been all week for him to just show up and start speaking things about your fetus into existence. 

Fully awake now, you go to the kitchen for something to drink, all the while waiting for an answer that satisfies you. All you can ever get out of N'Jadaka when he's 'busy' is just that.  _I'm busy, I got you when I'm done, I'm takin' care of business, baby, don't be so nosy._

He says he isn't running women, or drugs, or arms so there's no reason for you to trip but you're still suspicious. He's a mysterious person and you don't think you'll ever truly know everything about him, but now that you're together you want him to behave if it's the only thing he does. The  _last_ thing you need is another kidnapping now that you're pregnant; or worse. It's all you think about when you're alone, and you hate that.

Not only that, it seems like every other week there's some chickenshit tryhard villain fucking things up only to get bodied by one of the Avengers or something and that's another source of contention for you.

It'd be your luck  you just want some ice cream and some jackass throws you through time.

Following you into the kitchen, he backs you into the counter, frowning down at you as he says, "What'd I tell you, lil bit."

You sigh, "Not to worry about anything because you don't understand anxiety."

"Exac-no. Half of that. You need to relax."

"I need a Xanax cocktail fuckin' with you."

This makes him laugh and he calls you 'stupid' as he turns to rifle through your refrigerator. Everyone knows that someone isn't truly funny unless someone laughs and says 'you stupid.' 

Taking careful sips of your caffeine-free coke you start to think about the holidays again. The two of you haven't talked about Christmas and you're sure he's going to wax poetic about white people and commercialism but what's more important is the fact that he's going to have to show his face around your family sometimes. When you tell him that you want him to come with you to your parents' house he rolls his eyes like you called him a bitch.

You still do, but after the fact.

"Come on," you plead, leaning against the countertop. "I'm gonna tell my family i'm pregnant and I mean, none of them actually know who you are other than my parents. That's cool, I guess, because my cousin's baby daddy was a big ass question mark and we didn't even see him until she threatened to kill him so-"

"No."

"Yes! Five minutes. Then you can go; it's not gonna be some big party it's just my parents and maybe a few aunts and uncles coming by. I'm serious. You're gonna be present so they can identify you in a police lineup should you ever snap and kill me."

It's terrible that you aren't kidding; but you need to have rules for men that come around you and you've had that one instilled in you for a long time. Of course, N'Jadaka brushes you off and declares that only a crazy person would kill someone as 'fine as you,' as he lifts you to sit on the counter. You have to remind him that word on the street is that  _he's_ crazy but he sucks his teeth at that remark.

"A nigga  _can_ be," he goes. "If you cross me."

"Well, let's hope I don't cross you," you say, batting your eyelashes. "And let's hope you don't cross  _me."_

Smirking at you, he goes, "Yeah I hear how you operate, Left Eye. You burn my shoes I might have to go to jail."

"I know you didn't just threaten me," you say, trying and failing not to laugh at this entire exchange. You don't know if he's doing this on purpose but he always ends up making you laugh at his absurdity. 

His face is mere centimeters from yours now, and all you can see are those grills as he gives you that devilish grin. "And I know you know ya little bad ass is the only one that can get away with shit."

"I'm special," you go, before closing the distance and giving those lips of his a quick peck. He tries to go in for more but your house phone starts ringing before he can get you with that hand on the back of your neck.

Half expecting Ramirez, you're surprised that it's the hospital calling you about your insurance information not going through. You hop off of the counter and backtrack to your work desk, flipping through your planner to find the information that they're asking for. It's half your fault, having switched to a plan through your job and all of the new cards confuse you. 

Talking on phones, discussing appointments and business and work should theoretically exhaust you but in a way you find it comforting. It's just nice to focus on something that distracts you from your anxiety in any way. Sometimes it's hard to wrap your mind around the fact that there's something with a heartbeat and a head and arms and legs growing inside you. It's wild.

You don't think you'll truly believe it until your stomach is the size of a watermelon. And even then..wow.

The phone call seems to last forever and when you finally hang up, you're drained and hungry. Your kitchen has groceries all of a sudden so there's no excuse for not cooking, and all the while N'Jadaka is just watching you with his mouth full of an apple he took from your fruitbowl. Lord, you have a fruit bowl that isn't plastic or foam; this pregnancy is turning your entire life around. 

As he watches you peruse around the room he offers up a few interrogating questions like he always does. You're ready with rapid fire responses.

"You been takin' vitamins?"

"Yes."

"You better be eatin' right."

"I am. Sometimes."

"Sometimes better be three times a day, don't play wit' me."

You have to turn and look at him then, and he looks serious as hell; like he'd choke you out for not taking care of yourself and despite the inherent irony in that statement you sigh out a promise to do better. It's hard to remember when you're sluggish and tired in the mornings, or feeling queasy and scared, that you're eating for two. 

Too bad N'Jadaka buys groceries like you're having an entire litter of puppies. 

 

 

* * * * 

 

 

On Christmas Eve, N'Jadaka disappears again, leaving you in an empty bed with sore muscles and a kink in your neck. Unfortunately it wasn't caused by back-breaking love making; just his inability to leave you any space whenever he sleeps over in your full sized bed. Sleeping on him leaves you sweating from all the heat he radiates and  sleeping off him basically has you in between the nightstand and the bed. 

You stretch across the width of the bed, groaning as your muscles pull. Your stomach feels tight again, and it has you not wanting to leave bed. Everything seems to be making your Holiday Spirit drain by the second and it probably started by you sleeping in until noon. 

Despite the fact that it's Christmas Eve, you haven't gotten any presents for anyone. Sydney and Kayla and your mother have been very clear on what they want because they have no shame, but you've still failed to take your ass to the mall in time. Now you can only hope that you can make it down there without incident. Everyone knows trying to shop on the holiday is a nightmare, and the mall near you (the good one) is so large and nice that it's going to for-sure be packed full of people. 

You prepare to get dressed all the same, the idea of what to get the annoying father of your child bouncing around your head. He said he didn't want anything and his attitude towards Christmas seems to be Mean and Indifferent; but you're going to go ahead and assume he hates all family-oriented holidays. It makes sense and it makes you sad. 

He may get mad when you give him a gift tomorrow but you hope he knows that you like all types of presents so there'd better be  _something_ underneath the modest tree in your living room. Right now all it has under it is gifts for King; a new bed, toys, and some food items because he's greedy. And speaking of which, he's gone when you get up to look for him; N'Jadaka must have taken him. 

King's popped up all over his instagram now that he isn't a tiny puppy anymore, and you know it's because he looks tough and stereotypically pit-bull ish. Through your snooping you know that the comment section is full of people asking if King has any puppies or if he's willing to breed with their dog and boy are they in for disappointment. 

You're still thinking about puppies and pit bulls way after you've showered and oiled up; wondering how many dogs is too many, when N'Jadaka makes his presence known with your spare key. You shout a hello from your vanity table, making sure your makeup gets several even coats of finishing spray . There's no response.

"I said, hey," you repeat, staring hard at him through the reflection in your mirror. He's silent. 

When you turn to look at him in question you see that he has earbuds in, and you wonder if he even notices you in the room since he's gone straight to sitting on the other side of your bed with his back facing you. 

"HEY!"

You expect silence, but instead you receive an irritated growl and a, " _What!?"_

"I said 'hi.'"

"Hey."

"You know," you start, wiping foundation off of your nails. "It's Christmas Eve."

"And?" he goes, back still facing you. 

"And I like this holiday. I don't care if you don't but don't be rude to me just because i'm not brooding like you are."

You hear him mumble a 'whatever' before he turns to actually look at you; doing a doubletake as he does. He hasn't even asked the question yet but it's written all over his face. God, he's annoying sometimes. 

Predictably, he looks you up and down with a raised eyebrow before asking, "Where you goin' like that?"

"The mall."

"The mall," he repeats like he can't believe it.

You don't think your makeup is anything especially bold; just the normal shit with an added red lip, and your outfit is just black leggings with a matching off the shoulder top to be covered by a denim jacket. It's simple, comfortable, and something you don't mind running around a mall in.

He instructs you to stand up and when you do, still confused, he points straight to your behind. 

"What?" You scoff, looking at yourself in the mirror. The full length is on the back of your door along with your bathrobe and a few purses.

He stands behind you, rudely turning you by the shoulders so you're standing sideways in the mirror. 

"What you mean, 'what'? You think you about to go out with all this out? Nah."

"All 'what' out, N," you say, exasperated. You know he means your ass and maybe your cleavage but you can't always hide your shape behind heavy vintage denim. Right now, leggings and sweatpants are what fit and what feel good. He may just blow a gasket when summer comes back around because you fully intend to return to your crop tops, bandeaus, mini skirts and short-shorts. 

You wait until he opens his mouth to try and rationalize his stupid jealousy before you yank your arm away from him and go to pull on your jacket. King is under the tree when you enter the living room, wagging his tail at the sight of you and just like that you'd rather his company than N'Jadaka's. His negative juju is ruining your holiday mood, and you wish he went home or stayed out longer if he was going to be so annoying today.

"So you just gon' go when I said not to."

With an impressive roll of your eyes you turn to face the man standing in the doorway to your bedroom. 

The deja vu you're experiencing is crazy; it was almost this exact situation months ago that had you screaming at him about his jealousy before you went to the club. Only you're not going to the club this time, you're going out to be nice and buy your loved ones gifts that show how much you appreciate them. This includes him, even though he has a fetish for getting on your nerves to the point you just want to tell him to go away for a few days. You let all of this loose, not yelling by any means but not being nice about it either because you're pregnant and irritated at everything. You don't know  _why_ he's got an attitude today but if he's really in his feelings he could've stayed gone for all you care rather than kill your vibe with all his negativity. It doesn't help that he hasn't tried to sleep with you in over a week.

When you're done cussing him out you have one hand on the doorknob and the other on your car keys, ready to pretend like this entire situation didn't happen. He's just frowning at you, silent, so you twist the knob with a frustrated huff. 

"_____, hold up."

You pause right in the doorway because he almost never uses your name and you strangely prefer it that way. There's something about the nicknames he gives you that seems so much more affectionate than the sound of your name passing through his lips. Still, it does something to you that brings you back into your apartment with a reluctant scowl. 

Your raised eyebrow as he approaches goes unnoticed, just like your exasperated claim that he must be a 'damn Aquarius.' When he looks at you funny you respond that every Aquarius man you've known has gotten on every single bit of your last nerve and you twist the knife even further by telling him your Ex was one too.

He grabs you round the waist, lifting you with no effort at all so you're sitting on the kitchen counter again (his apparent favorite place to put you). 

"Don't compare me to nobody," he says darkly. "Especially that bitch nigga. "

"Then stop being a  _bitch_ , nigga," you go, pressing one finger to the side of his head. "You make me sick. I'm trying to be nice and here you come to stress me out. You better have bought me a damn gift, too. I don't care if you hate this 'white-washed, commercialized holiday.' "

He ignores you completely to say, "You don't need that lipstick and all that other shit to go to the mall. Don't need that ass on display like that  _or_ them titties . Showin' niggas what's mine, that ain't it. Not when you can't even fight, shoot, nothin'."

"Like you would care even if I did do all that. You'd still have an attitude about everything I have on because men are annoying as shit. Can't just tell me you're worried about me, can you? Can you? Gotta make it manifest as that dumb ass possessive shit that makes me wanna stab you."

He just raises his eyebrows at you with a slight shake of his head. You refuse to acknowledge how good he looks, and smells, even when he starts being a bitch by giving you those feather-light pecks on the lips you like. After the third one you move your face away, refusing to accept his 'apology.'

"Nope," you say. "Nope, nope, don't even try it."

He catches you on the jaw, then the neck, and you still refuse to pay him any attention. 

"Nah, listen-," is all he can get out.

"Nope."

"You bad as fuck."

You give him an indifferent shrug, because you already knew this. He knew this. Everyone knew this, but you say, "So?" all the same. 

"That mean you gotta be patient wit' me, Princess," he says, chuckling like this is funny. "We startin' lessons next week. I'm not having you out here with no self-defense skills."

"I have mace," you offer, shrugging again. This clearly isn't enough because he look at you like you're crazy for even insinuating that it was. He has such stupid ways of expressing his affection for you it sends you for a loop sometimes. All of those years of not committing and being on Kill Mode has his communication with women all screwed up and while you can tell he's sort of 'better,' he has a lot of shit to unlearn before you don't want to fight him anymore. 

He gives you that shake of his head again. "Mace ain't good enough. You know how many people I fucked up who just had mace? Hm?"

"Don't make me think about you killing people," you say with a frown, meaning every word. You don't like to confront the fact that he's a killer that may have killed those undeserving. It weirds you out. 

He tilts his head ever so slightly, eyes boring down into yours with that intensity he always has. 

  "Don't think about it then," he goes. "I'm not tryin' to scare you...okay?"

"Okay."

"But imma need you to not be so helpless. And when you this fuckin' fine, that's asking for trouble."

"Hm," you go, averting your eyes. "And you know 'trouble', don't you?"

At this facetious question he leans up and away from you, eyes never moving from your own as he rolls his shoulders. You're waiting for the smirk, and when it comes you exhale sharply so you don't get caught up in it and melt. 

"What's my name?" he goes, still smirking. His eyes hold something dark-sided, though.

You want to call him 'bastard' so bad but instead you opt to humor him and let that terrifying moniker pass through your lips with a condescending twist;  _your royal highness, King Killmonger. Long may he reign._

And with a jerk of his head he dismisses you, to your amusement, and you hop off the counter as he says to 'get the fuck on before he changes his mind.' He lunges for you when you call him a bitch under your breath, sending you stumbling into the hallway with a shrieking laughter.

 

* * * 

 

Later that evening you return home with a pizza in one hand and hot wings balanced ontop of the box. The other hand houses several bags with receipts that state that maybe you've spoiled your stupid friends. It was hard to shop for them but ultimately you think that it worked out; you can't really imagine a moment where either of your girls or your parents acted like they didn't like what you got them. They'd better not; you went all out this year. 

When you lock the door behind you, N'Jadaka waiting up for you is a pleasant surprise. You half expected him to be gone but there he is, rising to his feet from your couch with a groan like he's been there for hours. He eyes the dinner you've brought home before trying to see what you bought, declaring that he doesn't give a shit when you try and hide it.

"Let's exchange gifts  tonight," you say, all that holiday magic having worked it's way back into your system. Hearing the music and seeing all the decorations at the mall has you reinvigorated and you excitedly prepare to start wrapping everything. 

N'Jadaka gives you a look as he fishes a plate down from the cabinet. "Who said I was participatin'?"

"W-"

"Relax," he says, frowning at you. "Don't start. You know I got yo spoiled ass somethin'."

You smile and go back to wrapping. Most of it is technically stuffing tissue paper into bags but you consider it 'wrapping' all the same. For Sydney and Kayla you got them both rings and Pandora bracelets, with a little note in the inside of the boxes that say that you love them too much and they'd better appreciate that. You decided to throw in a couple candles too for weight because you already know they love a heavy gift more than a light one. 

For your parents you got them tickets to a cruise that sets sail in the spring. They've always talked about wanting to go on one, and visit the islands that are often stopped at so you've taken the initiative to make them do it. It's  _all_ you got them, because your bank account is crying, but you're sure they'll appreciate it.

The biggest monster of them all, and what had you stuck in the mall with several agonizing choices laid in front of you, is sitting om front of you in all white wrapping paper. You'd asked the people at the shoe store if they could wrap it for you and they complied with this basic, boring, lifeless paper that makes you mad the longer you look at it. With a glance behind you to make sure N'Jadaka isn't paying you any attention you begin to re-wrap the box with your own blue and silver paper. You don't bother with the bow, instead taping the envelope from the hospital to the top of the box with a nervous breath. 

It'll be news to you too, after all. 

When you turn around on your knees excitedly, N'Jadaka is sitting sprawled out on the couch with his eyes boredly fixed to you. The plate he was fixing is nowhere to be found and you wonder if he really ate it that fast.

"No," he shoots, gesturing to you. "I'm waitin' on you! Let's go."

"Wow," you say, narrowing your eyes in disgust. "Thanks for humoring me. Merry Christmas, bitch."

He chuckles at you before reaching forward to take the box from you. You move from your spot on the floor to the couch, wincing at the pain in your knees as you do so. Your hand is out, and you wait expectantly for him to reach down in the cushions to pull out a thick envelope. He tosses it to you and it lands on your lap, heavy enough to make you curious. 

But first you have a question. 

"How long has this been in between my couch cushions?"

"You gon' open it or what?"

Shaking your head, you put the envelope behind you because you're more nervous about his gift. The tan, flat piece of paper taped to the top of his gift is drawing your eye and when you point to it expectantly he only sets it aside to get to the box.

You want to be annoyed but you have to remind yourself that he can open them in any order he chooses. And that he does; peeling the paper away with such a lax air that it makes you want to scream because you  _know_ he's acting indifferent to piss you off. The small chuckle that comes out of his mouth is enough proof for you that he's being petty. Still, you study his features as he lifts the lid of the shoebox, those expensive ass Jordan 1s (replacing the ones King may or may not have chewed the fuck up) taunting you as you nearly got into a fight over them in the store. They were so much trouble you're disgusted, and the surprised way he raises his eyebrows has you feeling like it was probably worth it. 

He just says, "Damn, baby," not taking his eyes off of them as he does so. A weight lifts off your shoulders that prepares you for the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach at what's coming next. 

But first.

"Look inside the left shoe," you go, trying not to laugh. This will all be ruined if he saw you pull these tricks a few minutes ago as you re-wrapped the shoe box.

He starts laughing at you, once again calling you stupid as he tosses the baggy of weed he pulled out of the shoe onto the coffee table. You remember him once saying during a late-night Facetime session that the Horse Tranquilizer shit he smokes is what used to keep him from going too Dark and you had to take some of it to your pothead cousin to identify it. That took the most trouble, but you guess it worked in your favor because he's already trying to pull clothes off you. 

"Wait!" you laugh as he pulls you into his lap. "You have one more thing."

"Damn," he goes, frowning. "If I knew you was gon' do all this I would've got you more than-"

"Money," you cut him off with a knowing look. "I already know what's in that envelope. It feels like several rent payments and I appreciate it, sir, thank you."

"Hm," he snorts, amused. "You welcome."

Now he has no choice but to look at the envelope that you gave him, and your heart begins to beat so fast that you're afraid you'll pass out. You're on his lap, facing him, so he notices how tense you are but you refuse to let him stop because if he does you're going to change your mind. 

His eyes scan over the typeface on the front of the envelope before glancing briefly up at you, a silent understanding of what this could possibly be. There's no other reason for you to be excited for him to open something from the hospital. That silent cockiness returns as he rips the envelope, and you want to throw up at the anticipation. 

Inside there's nothing but one sheet of white paper, and the wait for him to unfold it is agonizing. On the outside he seems like he doesn't care what he reads, staring blankly at the words on the paper with a Pokerface so strong it astounds you. 

"What?!" you shriek, voice shaking as you wait for a reaction. All he does is suck his teeth, which should be your first clue, but you yank the paper from him anyway because you can't handle the anticipation. 

14 weeks.

You're 14 weeks pregnant and staring at the letters on the page in awe as if they're written in a language you can't speak. Your brain takes a second to catch up but before long you're laughing because the oh so terrifying Killmonger's heir born out of wedlock is going to be a little princess.

"I don't know what you laughin' for," he snaps, watching you hop around the coffee table in excitement. "Now I gotta kill niggas for both of y'all little spoiled asses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	35. christmas and chill?

 

 

All things considered, you think it's pretty bold of a man to assume you wanted to be waken up on  **Christ** mas with sex; just as bold of him to have an attitude at the discovery that you still aren't asleep at 4 in the morning. 

The Mac taking up most of the space on your work desk is the perfect place to watch movies and the only reason you haven't used the tv is because you actually wanted to be 'courteous' and let N'Jadaka sleep without hearing the noise. Sometimes you can't believe how nice you are. 

Having pressed play once he woke up and started complaining, you fail to hear him get up because you're too engrossed in  _The Wiz_ and how they could have possibly made Diana Ross look so busted when she's so beautiful. You always question why they cast her anyways, as the play  _still_ had Dorothy as a young girl even with the black recasting.

God, the songs are good, though.

The feeling of a presence near you scares the hell out of you and you jump, your headphones slipping backwards off your bonnet-covered head.

"What?!"

You look up to see N'Jadaka squinting from the light coming off of the screen and saying something about him wanting you to come to bed. He's shirtless and wearing basketball shorts that are hanging so low it's giving you some thoughts; especially with the fact that his waist is level with your face as you turn.

Rubbing his nose with one hand he uses the other to tap you on the side of the head. "Get off that bright ass computer."

"How about you go home," you say, turning back to the screen. Your favorite part is about to come on;  _He's The Wizard_ aka the scene that gave you nightmares as a child. You can still remember the way your parents laughed at you when you nearly had a fit watching the citizens peel themselves off of the graffiti wall. It still gives you the creeps.

"Aye-"

Reaching over, you unplug your headphones, hand brushing the silhouetted ultrasound picture of your little one (it'd fallen out of the envelope with the sex results and you nearly cried). 

The music is starting and you're looking up at N'Jadaka expectantly, exhausted and lacking the filter you'd have during normal waking hours because running on sleep is the only way you'd be pointing a manicured nail in his face with a shake in your shoulders. He just looks at you, blankly, as you open your mouth to halfway start laughing as you sing.

"You need to go to sleep," he starts. "All you do is stay u-"

_Sweet thing, lemme tell you 'bout the world and the way things are-a._

"____."

_You've come from a different place and I know you've traveled far-a_

It's so funny how annoyed he's getting, the way he always does when you ignore him. He's so used to giving orders and having people be intimidated into doing them that it drives him nuts when you disobey, and you think that's partly the reason he's even standing in front of you right now. The difficult ones are always the best to pursue. 

You keep singing and he keeps acting like he can't stand you but you can see the corners of his mouth turning up as he continues to observe your sleepy behavior. 

_He's The Wiz! He's the man, He's the only one who can give your wish right to ya-_

"Forget it," he snaps, turning away with a chuckle. "Stay ya goofy ass up, I don't care. You can't sing neither."

"Fuck you! You sound like a dead cat I heard you that one time. I can't believe you woke up lookin' to fuck anyways. If you would've stayed in that wack wet dream that better have had ME in it, you wouldn't have even seen me watching movies."

It's too dark to see anything now that he's away from the desk and back in bed, so you don't have time to dodge the pillow that comes soaring in your direction. You squeak in surprise as it hits you and knocks several things over on your desktop that has you wanting to fight. An empty water bottle, your pencil holder and a stack of files go all over the place, turning your perfect desk into a chaotic mess. "Boy-"

"Shut up and c'mere," he says, voice coming out of the dark. He sounds like a demon trying to seduce you into coming over to the darkside and the worst part about it is, you actually go. The movie is still playing (at a quieter volume) when you collapse into your soft sheets and comforter, smelling like fabric softener. The best part about washing sheets is the way they feel when you get back into them the first time. 

It's like they're brand new, so soft on your bare legs and arms as you stretch for the first time in hours. Since starting your second trimester, you definitely feel as if your appetite and energy have returned during the day but the insomnia still has you up at night. It'll have you waking up a million times a night to the point that you just decide to stay up until 8 AM hits and knocks you out until noon. You spend the next 7 or so hours at your desk working, wanting to go to the office but not feeling like it at the same time. 

You took the week off for Christmas, and you think it'd be better for you to get out of the house for a bit when work restarts. 

Like the perfect gentleman he thinks he is, N'Jadaka offers you his arm to lie on (or rather he gets on his back and you bumrush your way into his space). You know he's thinking of your unborn child when he gets on your nerves about sleeping and eating but you can't for the life of you force yourself to sleep right now. It's just one of those times.

So you resort to talking, complaining about your pants starting to feel tight and your complete lack of maternity clothes. You always pass the store in the mall and it just seems like a lot of blouses and jeans with weird bands in them; all clothes you normally wear to work.

"Maybe I need to get more leggings," you muse, sighing. "I'd wear all my babydoll dresses but it's been cool lately."

"And they show off too much ass."

"It's  _my_ ass."

"Wrong."

You make the decision to wear one tomorrow since he wants to be funny, because why not? You own quite a few of them, and it may be nice to feel put-together rather than sloppy by the usual sweatpant + big tee combo you've been rocking.

After making a complaint that you won't let him sleep and shut up, N'Jadaka derails your clothes talk to mention he's going out of town soon. You expect it's something to do with "work" or maybe something of similar importance. But no, of course not.

"I'm just goin'," he says simply.

"Where?"

"Atlanta."

"Why?"

"To mind my damn business," he shoots. "Because I feel like goin'. Don't trip, imma take you somewhere since you clearly got a attitude about it."

Truthfully, you don't, because for some reason you trust he wouldn't deliberately do anything to hurt you. Your friends kind of thought he was the type to have side pieces and warned you months ago to be careful, but now you think you've passed the timeframe where you'd be wary. Him going to Atlanta without you doesn't phase you in the slightest, other than the fact that he's going to be in close proximity to multiple Bojangles and he can't mail you the chicken tenders + biscuit combo.

Damn.

He asks where you want to go and you flat out say Wakanda, to which he emits that rumble of a chuckle that shakes his chest. 

"That ain't a vacation, baby."

"Why not?" You ask, remembering the ways T'Challa described it to you. It seemed normal, like home to him yet he talked of it in a way that made it seem like he experiences it for the first time each time he returns. Although you suppose his experience and N'Jadaka's experience may be different. 

Humming, he adjusts and rolls you off his arm that's probably gone numb, before answering. "It's beautiful...But you ain't ever experienced being in a place where you shake people's nerves just by being present. Workin' shit out with T ain't make everybody else cool wit' me being there all of a sudden. I threw that nigga off a cliff."

"Oh...maybe it's too soon," you offer, not wanting to step on any toes or even want him to elaborate on what that means. "They'll get over it."

Chuckling again, he flat out says that those three months he was over there were the worst for multiple reasons. When you innocently ask why, his first response throws you for a loop. 

"I ain't ever been abstinent for that damn long. Fuck."

"Wow," you say. "Wow."

"Shit, it ain't like it wasn't presented to me neither," he goes, shrugging. "T dumb ass got mad when I told him half the maids  or whatever the fuck was thots but I mean-"

"You are so damn RUDE," you say, laughing. "I thought you said all the women were scared of you!"

He corrects you swiftly with, " _Half_ of em was scared of me. The other half wanted to fuck so damn bad they was shameless. Comin' in the middle of the night to 'change the sheets' and shit like-"

"Did you get your sheets changed, though?"

This gets you a rough nudge in response and you stifle a giggle into your cold pillow. Even though it's dark and N'Jadaka's voice is hella deep you still feel wide awake and hyper aware of him lying next to you. Your bed is small, it's too damn small, and you make it a point to announce that in order for the two of you to sleep in the same room  you need to be at his house, for now.

The entire bed shifts as he gets up again, and you watch the bathroom light flick on as he enters it.

"Bet."

"I was thinking, though," you start, trying to block out the sounds of him peeing. "One of the bigger apartments down the hall at the other end of the building is empty so I'm gonna try and see if I can move into it."

"Why don't you just move out," he calls from the bathroom, voice echoing from within. 

"Because my lease isn't up. Duh."

He mimics you to make fun of you, and you threaten him with the couch if he doesn't leave you be. To your surprise he takes it, remarking that he can't sleep in the same room as you if you're up. Bitch.

 

* * *

 

 

Loud knocking wakes you up from the little bit of sleep you were able to get, followed by both loud barking and the sound of N'Jadaka fussing about the noise. He's ironically the loudest of all three, causing you to whine out several insults and cuss words into your pillow because you're tired and can't have your normal caffeine-fueled coffee. Ramirez said you could have a little sometimes, less than 200 mg, but that isn't enough to give you a boost so decaf it is.

The exchange going on in the living room sounds like he ordered breakfast, and it's confirmed when the smell wafts into your bedroom through the cracked door. You hear a peppy ' _Merry Christmas!'_ to which a grumbled string of English language is returned. The door shuts and King is next to face N'Jadaka's morning Christmas Day wrath. 

This gets you all the way up and you croak out, "Stop bein' mean to my dog!"

It sounds like he tells you to shut up and he's lucky you get nauseous the second you move to your feet. You thought you were done with this shit, and you feel like crying as you return to your familiar spot over the toilet. Rather than throw up you just dry heave painfully, that stomach-aching back breaking sensation that has your eyes watering something awful. 

Even though he told you to shut up, apparently the sound of a dying cat coming from you is enough to make him act like he likes you. He rubs your back as if he has an attitude about it, mad that you're going through it you suppose, and when you pop back up you push him away. 

"You woke me up again," you whimper pitifully, trying to begin brushing your teeth. "You get on my nerves."

"Go back to sleep then!"

"I  _can't!_ Get out of my apartment I'm going crazy!"

You start going off about wanting that bigger apartment which only makes  _him_  go off about you just moving in with him if you want so much space. He seems to forgotten the value of money, you think, and this is another area you start bickering about. He's just annoyed by you, and you're just pregnant and mean, and tired and exhausted with no outlet. 

You're whining, you know you're a few moments away from a tantrum and right as you fold your arms N'Jadaka rushes King out of the bedroom and shuts the door. He locks it for good measure (because recently you've discovered King can nearly open doors), and turns toward you with a vicious look in his eyes. This startles you and you stand there, stuck, until he stalks toward you like the feline predator he evokes in every fiber of his being. 

Even still, after all this, his gaze has you stuck right in that spot in the bathroom doorway until he yanks you into your bedroom proper. He snarls a harsh ' _c'mere'_ as he does so and that hoe in your brain wakes all the way up. 

His hand is gripping your tee shirt hard and it's all bunched up in his grip as he proceeds to pull you closer to him to say, "Yo mean ass stays with an attitude. It's too early for all this shit."

You give him that flippant shrug that you know he hates and that hand of his migrates to your neck; not in a dangerous way because his grip is too light. His thumb brushes against your throat and you lean into his touch almost completely at his will already. It's been a while for the two of you and you hate that he's annoyed at you because that means you're going to be sore.

But at the very least you'll be asleep for a few more hours. 

He stares you down for a few agonizing seconds before commanding you harshly to get down. At first, you're confused, thinking he wants you to bend over but he pushes you to your knees in front of him. You're eye-level with his crotch, and when you glance back up at him he's looking at you expectantly. "Oh, you thought you wasn't about to put work in? You want this shit so damn bad, you better make it hard."

"But you always go in too-" is all you can get out before he cocks an eyebrow.

"Was I askin' or did I tell you to do somethin'? Hm?"

Honestly, his tone is equal parts worrying and equal parts arousing, sending you on a complete journey that tires you out in a few seconds flat. He actually seems pissed off and it's one of the times where you can't figure out if he's Real Mad or Sexually Mad, because those are two different things.

He isn't hard at all when you feel him, looking down at you with an unmoving face when you start pouting because he's never made you work this hard. Pun intended.

Predictably, though, he's giving you all sorts of attitude as you have his dick in your hands and he's lucky you aren't crazy. Normal men don't talk as much shit when their most precious possession is in someone else's grip like this. And after what feels like five minutes, you're over it.

"I wish you'd shut up," you say with an eye roll, wondering if this is gonna get you choked up for a split second. He chuckles and you get a little scared, peeking up at him through your lashes timidly. You should've just kept him in your damn mouth and shut up.

"See?" he goes, reaching down to grab hold of the back of your head. "That attitude right there'll get you fucked up." 

You wanna say ' _you ain't gonna do nothin'_ but a divine force intervenes and has you doing just what you're supposed to be doing. It's Christmas Day and you're supposed to be getting ready to go see your parents; not giving your irritating baby daddy head with your knees digging into the floor. He brings out the cell phone again, and you wonder how many videos of you he has on his phone; waiting to be accidentally leaked by one of his idiot friends. 

He's choking you like he always does, pushing your head more and more until your entire throat feels like it's full of him and him only. You don't know where your uvula went, or your tongue, but N'Jadaka's dick has apparently told the both of them to get the hell out. Drool is dripping down your chin something awful and your eyes are watering but he doesn't care because he's a man currently trying to send you to meet the Lord. 

Now he's praising you with an attitude, telling you that you're learning and all that shit but you're just thinking that you wish he'd hurry up and cum so you can re-hinge your jaw. You can say that this is honestly the longest time you've been face-fucked and it's annoying. You just want his annoying ass to let you give him head without interfering. 

He finally lets your head go and you disconnect from him with a hard cough, interrupted only by him cumming all over your face. You gasp, feeling like a cheap lay in some sleazy location yet aroused all at the same time. You're a freak now because of him it's hard to remember.

"Look up," he says, still expelling a few harsh breaths. You do as you're told and that's when you hear the iphone shutter sound. A rag is tossed at you a second later.

"Now get up, we ain't done."

Glancing at your nightstand clock you see that it's actually afternoon, 1:24 to be exact, but the man above you gives you no chance to mention it because you're being pushed into the mattress. Your braids are all over the place and you're leaning on a few of them but it's irrelevant in N'Jadaka's pursuit of pushing you through the mattress. 

He yanks your pajama shorts down with a roughness that only makes the ache between your legs grow so painfully you whine into the comforter. It turns into a yelp as the shock of him entering you hits, but you won't dare say shit because you want this to last as long as possible. Clearly you're being 'punished' because he's paid your body zero attention so far and you don't think he's going to do so after the fact. No, it's clear he's going to get his (second) nut in and leave you trembling on the bed.

He's basically trapped you underneath him, one arm around your neck and the other above you on the bed to keep you locked in place. This is your first time in this position and will probably be the last for a while considering you're lying on your stomach. 

With each thrust you make some kind of unholy moan into the comforter, every harsh smack of his body into yours punctuated by a deep grunt in your ear. He hits it particularly hard all of a sudden and you wince, groaning out an, " _Oh my god_ ," because that's all you can ever find the strength to say.

Above you, N'Jadaka's response is swift; "What you callin' him for? This ain't his dick you feelin'. Is it?"

"No," you go, knowing he expects an answer. 

"Whose is it?"

 "It's yours!" You hate and love this all at the same time.

"And whose pussy is this?"

You cut yourself off with a gasp before croaking out that that is indeed his too at the moment. He knows it is.

" _Right,"_ he snarls and you have to say a little prayer to yourself and ask for forgiveness.

It  _should_  be the Devil's, because you're about to all kinds of crazy if he keeps this up. It's like he finds new and interesting ways to pleasure you each time you find yourself in bed with him and it's exhausting. He seems to know your body better than you do; and in the wrong hands this kind of power could manipulate you into doing all kinds of stuff against your better judgement.

Like having you crying real tears, again, because you don't think you contain enough power to withstand the way he makes you cum. You never can, and you're never in control of your body as it wrecks every nerve ending you possess in its journey from your head all the way down to your toes. N'Jadaka is laughing at you because you're a shaking, crying mess underneath him, and when he turns you around you cover your face. 

You refuse to move your hands until you feel the bed dip harshly before his weight disappears. Peeking through your fingers you watch him go into the bathroom to no doubt hop in the shower. Predictably, you hear it turn on not a second later but it doesn't prepare you for what comes next.

"Did I say you was done?!"

"Oh my  _god."_

"'Oh my god' me again, _____."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Merry Christmas!"

Zeus is the first to greet you, hopping up to put his paws in your stomach with his tail wagging a mile a minute. King steps around you to try and tackle him, forcing your reunion to be cut short just so you can avoid being mauled by two playing pit bulls. They run around you through the sliding door and into the backyard, leaving you and N'Jadaka to fully step into your parents' kitchen. 

It was both a relaxing and surprising discovery to see that  there weren't any cars parked in the driveway and sure enough, just your mother sits at the kitchen table as food cooks on the stove. 

"Where's Dad?" you ask, bending down to hug her. 

"Living room," she goes, smiling past you. "Merry Christmas, Erik."

He nods and returns a pseudo-pleasant smile, but doesn't say it back, and you reach back to smack him on the arm for being a weirdo. This makes him suck his teeth at you before pushing you aside to ask your mom where the bathroom is. 

The fact that he could've asked you but didn't makes you call him petty under your breath as he disappears down the hall. Your mom chuckles at the two of you before hauling back and yelling for your father. 

You're holding the giftbag with their present in it nervously, and you shift from side-to-side as you hear him get up. The entire ride over, you had to get mentally ready to tell your parents the news (more specifically your father), and as you stand among all this delicious food your mind falters. You tried to be cute with the card you made, pasting a copy of your ultrasound picture onto a doily you found in the bottom of your work bag. In purple marker you state your congratulations on them becoming grandparents.

It's ontop of the gift itsself; cleverly placed there to soften the blow. Your mom halfway knows already, but this is all about to hinge on your father and how he'll react. For now, his reaction is to pull you in for a hug once he sees you, remarkably smelling of a nice cologne and not Joop. You have to look at your mom for that one because her husband finally smells like a person and not a pimp from the 70s.

"Got him some Gucci Guilty for Christmas," she says. "Two bottles and the shower gel."

"Whatever," retorts your dad, arm still around your shoulders. "What you get us, favorite child?"

"I'm your only," you shoot, knocking his arm off you with a laugh. "Mom has it. What'd you get me?"

He ignores you completely to grab at the gift bag that your mother is already tearing into. As planned, the doily falls out onto the table, folded in half. Kayla and Sydney wanted to be here to see but you can't wait any longer for your mother to react like the clown that she is. They're probably still asleep.

Hopping to her feet she shouts, "A gaht-damn girl! Won't he do it?!"

Now that she knows you're keeping the baby and apparently having a girl like she would want, she's hype and her excitement is exciting you to near tears. That excitement turns to uncertainty once your father picks up the homemade announcement and just stares at it like it's a hard riddle. 

The both of you just stare at him as the gears in his brain start to turn in order to craft the best possible response. 

"I know- you-w-," he stutters, staring at you with both hands on his hips. " _You pregnant, _____?!"_

"Yea-"

"Since when?!"

"Um, I'm like at the end of my first trimester-"

That's when N'Jadaka reemerges from the hallway, stepping around your speechless father and back into the kitchen with the rest of you. Something tells you he isn't taking it very well, because he refuses to accept N'Jadaka as a viable relationship partner for you. That angers you, still, and you just wish his stubborn ass would give it a rest.

No, he isn't a doctor or a lawyer or someone with a mouth full of veneers. He's a brash individual with grills and dreads and a soft spot for you that you still can't believe sometimes. Whether or not the two of you will be together years from now is irrelevant; what matters is the now and right Now you're pregnant and your father needs to get over the fact that the man your mom is showing the food to is Here. 

He's got questions and none of them make you less mad.

"I hope this comes with a ring on your finger," he goes,  frowning. 

N'Jadaka makes some kind of incredulous snort in the background while your mother outright throws a dishrag at your father. She looks furious when she says, "And I hope you find some damn business to mind; it's Christmas, don't start."

They start bickering about you, turning your moment of excitement  into another thing to argue about. You saw this coming, and the annoyed look you share with N'Jadaka speaks volumes about how tired you are. To make matters worse, the sliding  door behind you opens to reveal flat out  _noise._

The noise of your dogs barking and the cousins that are egging them on; and the noise of your aunt and uncle letting themselves in with shrill requests to bring out the Isley Brothers music. They say hello to you, all smiles, but you don't return it because your irritating father managed to disintegrate your entire mood in less than five minutes.

You love him but you can't stand him sometimes. Fuck.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 "You okay, miss?"

Shaking your head ever so slightly, you continue to stare out into the rainy afternoon through the passengers window of your Uber's car. It's around low 50s, giving you reason to bring out your layers today. Your ripped jeans have been replaced by a pair of leggings because your stomach said Not Today, and through a moment of sad impulsivity the night before you took down your braids. You hate that your trainwreck of a baby reveal is getting to you so bad but it had you crying angry, hot, tears on the way home and absolutely refusing to leave N'Jadaka alone all night.

He called you a baby yet stopped trying to pry you out of his lap after about 10 o clock. You stayed there, pouting with an attitude, until you fell asleep and he pushed you off him like a bitch. And even this morning, he made you get out of your own apartment just to tell you not to come back until you 'bought something nice' for yourself.

The only thing that made you leave was his promise in his ear that he was gonna have something for you when you got back to his place. Sure it could be dinner but it could also be dick and the mystery is exciting. 

You really wanted to be alone despite everything, and you may get cussed out later for going out but you just didn't feel like driving. You're sure once N'Jadaka looks outside to see your Jeep still in his driveway he's going to be calling you with some Words but hey. It is what it is. 

The lessons he said he'd give you are still weighing on your mind and you just know it's going to be shooting. He's going to get you a license to carry but the thought of carrying that tiny gun freaks you out. Everything does; especially that speech he gave you where he essentially said he cares too much about you for you to be unprepared for the worst. It's hard to prepare for the 'worst,' and thinking of it only has your anxiety spiking once you actually start perusing the mall. 

It's the best one in the area, full of the bougier shoppers and luxury stores that you normally bypass to get to the cheaper ones. Why buy that top from Nordstrom when you can get it from Forever21 at a lower price? And even though N'Jadaka took the lazy route and gave you a  _lot_ of money rather than a gift you still want to shop at the cheaper stores by habit.

At first. 

Because you pass by a Kate Spade and see an adorable pink purse with a red heart lock and all bets are off. You feel like body tackling the older white woman standing in front of the display because she won't move fast enough; and to make matters worse she keeps glancing at you like you're making her nervous by lingering so close.

Finally you belt out a rude sounding 'excuse me' before reaching over to grab the purse she was just looking at. You don't even care how you seem because there was only one pink left among the assortments of evergreen and black, and you'll be damned if you lost it because she wanted to study every stitch in the leather.

Appalled at the prices of some of the clothes on display, you still manage to grab a few chiffon dresses because those are definitely your favorite types to wear in the warmer months. And just like that you've spent 500 dollars. 

It's even more appalling that you look across the mall corridor and see B with her entourage in the Coach store with a hat pulled low, and when you try and hurry into the direction of the escalator you make another discovery that proves to you once and for all that you're not stepping foot outside until your water breaks in 6 or so months.

"So you really got that nigga baby, huh?"

You wonder if God would forgive you, dare you say even appreciate, if you choked Devon out with the straps of your new purse. You're convinced he's stalking you at this point, and being around N'Jadaka has begun to make you violent in the face of your exhaustion and disappointment as of late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm definitely not going to write a chapter for every month of "your" pregnancy, so i'm trying to figure out just when I want the timeskip to happen. Also I'm already trying to figure out when the story will end yall lol 
> 
> Since it's character driven and not Plot Heavy it's easy to just write forever but I don't wanna do that. I wanna have a nice, semi conclusive yet hopeful ending where people can kind of fill in the blanks for the rest. ??? Idk. ignore me im rambling lol


	36. devil eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you've got the devil in your eyes....

 

All of the people enjoying their post-Christmas shopping around you have no idea how much vitriolic rage is bubbling inside you, a woman with a Kate Spade bag and a crease in your brow, as you stare down the devil-eyed man sitting in a chair in front of you. Now, more often than not, you don't pay a single bit of attention to the people sitting in the various rest areas around the mall because they usually house tired parents and their kids taking a break from the busy environment.

Seeing Devon checking his phone in one of the cozy mall chairs wasn't a part of the plan. 

Nor was seeing B, and a second glance to the Coach store in front of you lets you know she's still lingering inside. Presented to you are two people who you truly believe would have a mental conniption at the discovery of your pregnancy and all you can think to do is tiredly send a text to N'Jadaka. 

It's code because he made you arrange situations to emojis when you refused to remember all the military jargon he was spitting at you one night. It doesn't matter the type, as long as it's a red one followed by location and he'll come find you. And that's just what you do as Devon opens his mouth to once again to ask if you're really pregnant. 

 

> 🌹🌹🌹  _ **Sycamore Grove**  _🌹🌹🌹

 

The response is near instant. 

> _goofy ass. what store_

_>   **kate spade**_

You roll your eyes and wordlessly turn your back on the man in front of you; he's not worth your time and energy and you'll be damned if you stress over his reappearances in your life. The mere sight of Devon has you wanting to retreat back into the safety of N'Jadaka's lap; curled up and staring at your phone while he watches tv and rubs all on your behind like it's a stress ball.  

"How is any of that your business?" you ask, shifting your bag to  your other hand. "How is anything about me your business? And  _how_ did you even know that?"

Devon scoffs at your tone, no doubt used to the timid and accommodating woman he used to manipulate, before rising to his feet. God, the more you look at him the more you wonder what you were thinking when you let him charm you in that bar back then. It hasn't been that long since the two of you split, and you have some kind of sneaking suspicion that he's only interested in you because you don't want anything to do with him.

He didn't appreciate you when he had you and now his Horse Veneers doesn't know what to do with himself. 

"So, that's the type of nigga you want, then.  Okay."

For a second you just look at him, unable to find anything to say to the blatant jealousy going on here. The way he's looking at you makes you uncomfortable and you don't know if this meeting is going to go any direction but south. Even after the fact because he just goes on and on about you and him and how N'Jadaka isn't going to do anything but bounce to the next girl when he gets sick of 'fucking you.'

At this point you're over this interaction so you try and leave, making sure to turn the other direction so as to avoid the Coach store, but a hand grabs your jacket. 

"I'm not done talkin' to you," he says rudely. "See this is why we had problems-"

"You know all I gotta do is ask and you'll come up missing, right?"

He hesitates a bit at this, grip faltering just a little but not enough to let you go and you end up jerking away with a rough tug. The fact that you've just threatened him with death forces you once again to confront the fact that your boyfriend is a killer; a silent and deadly predator that could truly have Devon's mother wondering where her son is. She was a nice woman, reminiscent of a grandmother and completely oblivious to the fact that her son is still a bastard. You feel weird at the thought of it all, uncomfortable yet exhilarated at the power you suppose you have. 

N'Jadaka is smitten by you, no matter how he tries to deny it, and if you asked him he'd do it. He'd do it quietly, or he'd do it loudly, whichever you'd like. Going by the look in Devon's eyes, he realizes it too, but he's too much of a dumbass to let that fear stick around. 

So he grabs for your jacket again, anger in his eyes, and people are starting to notice how you're wrestling away from him with hate in yours. He starts mouthing off again about you and how you're out of your damn mind for threatening him, and just as he calls you 'Killmonger's Bitch' you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You don't even need to turn to know what presence just creeped on into your space; just that you don't want to be present yourself. You want to shop, honestly, and if N'Jadaka stabs this fool in front of all these people and gets arrested you'll be a mess. He cannot go to prison. You won't allow it.

So when you turn to face your literal savior, pleading with him to let it slide just this once, he doesn't even hear you. He's too busy trying to get to Devon, pushing against your weak grip on his hoodie so hard your feet slide against the floor. 

Suddenly you hear, "Okay, we'll see," and when you look behind you Devon is leaving. Quickly, you note, he vanishes into a crowd of people nearing the closest exit.  You're rattled by this interaction but you quickly suppress it.

N'Jadaka is staring down at you, nostrils flared when you look up at him. 

"Wh-"

"What you call me for if you was gon' beg me not to do shit?"

Frowning yourself, you say, "Because we're in the middle of a busy mall the day after Christmas. I wanted you to come scare him off; not snap his neck in front of all these white folks so you can go to prison and leave me with a baby. No sir."

His aggro mode switches off and his shoulders relax a little, leaving you to hook an arm around his and start moving. You're spending money today; Devon be damned. 

After a bit he goes, "Imma be alright. You'd be taken care of, regardless."

"You can't know that," you say, leaning into him. You're avoiding the Coach store at all costs. "And how'd you get here so fast?"

"I was already out here; my phone was actin' up."

"That's cuz you got Sprint. A Prince and that's what service you have; wild."

He pushes you away from him for that quip and you'd nearly stumble sideways into a perfume stand if he doesn't reach out and grab you at the last second. You try and call him out but he already has something for you with the way he sucks his teeth in annoyance. 

"And you think you slick, catchin' an Uber out here instead of drivin'. Don't let me catch you doin' it again."

"But-"

"Don't 'but' me."

You open your mouth to do just that but a passing group of guys and their commentary cuts you off. One of them, wearing a pair of vintage throwback glasses, smirks as he says, "Damn baby, is that ya man or ya father? Got you all the way in line."

You just squint over at them, not finding the joke funny at all because N'Jadaka  _does_ have this irritating penchant for barking orders at you like your father and you're a little tired of it. Still, you're walking around with the equivalent of a pit bull and men are deciding to continue to try you rather than mind their business. Trying to keep N'Jadaka out of prison is apparently going to be harder than you originally thought, as you can feel him basically bristle like a cat seconds away from pouncing.

Luckily for the comedian in front of you, one of his boys hits him on the shoulder before whispering that he'd better chill, and they scurry off half-laughing and half-apologizing. 

You hear a faint, "My bad, bruh!" as they do so. 

"This is why I can't go out with you," you say after a bit, snickering. "What do you wanna buy me, next?"

N'Jadaka doesn't say anything, too preoccupied with mean-mugging some old man that's staring him down as the two of you pass. Luckily for the both of you, grandpa keeps his geriatric mouth shut. He wants to fight everything that may have a problem, truly like a guard dog, and you get tired of silently asking him to reign it in whenever someone looks at him funny. And surprisingly, a lot of people do. 

There's either those who know who he is and regard him with a skittish uncertainty; or those who feel like they have to look tough like they aren't afraid of starting shit should it come to it. Those are the most annoying ones, aside from the women giving him bedroom eyes or staring at the way he walks with that lax confidence. And now  _you_ feel like starting something sometimes, especially when one girl standing at a Smoothie stand licks her lips as the two of you pass.

Sucking your teeth you tighten your hold on N'Jadaka's arm before whispering your displeasure.

"She can relax looking at you like that."

"She was lookin' at  _you,_ lil bit."

"Oh."

He's smirking when you look up at him, remarking that she was fine and  _you're_ fine and that's something he wouldn't mind being in the middle of. You don't know how many times you've told him to shut up in the past few weeks but it has to be World Record worthy because it doesn't even sound like a real word anymore. 

You get sick of carrying your bag after a while, handing it off to him while you speedwalk over to the PINK to the right of you. The big banner for their bra sale has caught your eye, especially since you've nearly gone up an entire cup size already and it's at the point where you either wear sports bras or nothing. Right now, you're wearing nothing, and if you didn't have a jacket on your abrasive companion would have something to say about your nipples being visible through your shirt. 

"Which color should I get?" you ask, sorting through a rack of bright pink and black tshirt bras. "I feel like all I have are boring, old lady colors."

You continue to look, waiting for your answer, only to find that you're standing there alone. A PINK employee glances at you with a puzzled look on her face, clearly wondering if you're talking to her or yourself, and once you assure her that you weren't you go looking for N'Jadaka. He's standing outside the store, leaning against the railing and going through his phone like he can't physically enter a lingerie store. 

"Excuse me," you say, tapping him. "You had me in there talking to my self."

"You in the wrong section," is all he says before gesturing over to Victoria's Secret. At this you have to scoff because if your memory serves you, the last thing you bought from there he ripped to pieces like an animal and wasted some money. When you remind him, he shrugs like he doesn't care, letting you know that in a minute you're going to blow up and he's won't even bother wanting to see you in anything sexy.

You're quick to remind him that you'll wear lingerie at 9 months if you want to and he'd better not act stupid about your body changing. Before  _and_ after the fact. It's something you think about a lot, how this pregnancy will change your body in the physical sense. You don't think you're obsessive about it, but you would very much like to return to the size you are post-pregnancy, which means you're going to have to stop being lazy and possibly start working out. 

But N'Jadaka is stupid if he thinks he's going to stop touching you once you start really showing. Real stupid.

-

"I'm not stoppin' at Taco Bell."

N'Jadaka's car rumbles quietly at the stoplight and you're starving; aching even, for him to act like he cares that you're eating for two. You plan on using that excuse for everything, especially because he declared the food court at the mall too crowded to bother with. You'd nearly had a whole tantrum in the store and now that he refuses to stop and get you some food you threaten to close your legs for the next month and a half.  

And now you sit, stomach rumbling as you stare out at the sky turned orange by the sunset. You're still wondering what the 'something' he was going to have for you is, and at this point you'd rather it be dinner and not sex. That can wait, especially because he's being a bitch and won't get you any tacos for the pretty lengthy ride back to his place. 

You use the silence to think of all that you have to do and how time seems to be moving so quickly for you. There's a dentist appointment you have to schedule about that sore spot in your mouth, and it's been lingering in the back of your mind like a scary reminder of the negative effects of pregnancy. Reading somewhere that pregnancy can screw with your dental health had you regarding the toothache with anxious thoughts, but it seems more like a wisdom tooth appearing and less like your pearly whites rotting out of your mouth.

The cars whiz by in front of you and you think of Devon, how his eyes looked at the mall earlier. He scared you, honestly, giving off a dangerous vibe that has you paranoid about where he's going to pop up next. It's painfully obvious that he isn't taking your Upgrade well, angry that you're relatively happy and thriving with someone that isn't him. He doesn't like that you're pregnant, and you don't like that he absconded into the mall crowd like a ghost when your reinforcement showed up. 

You mention this worry to N'Jadaka, throwing in the fact that B was there as well. 

He snorts, one arm draped lazily over the steering wheel while his other hand rubs at his chin idly. "I know how dudes like that think."

"Which is...how?"

"The next time he wanna 'pop up' that's it. I don't care what you gotta say about it," he regards you with a serious look. "I'm breakin' his jaw or his neck; pick one. Some people  _make_ you kill em, they don't give you a choice and  _this_ nigga ain't givin' me a choice. "

Frowning, you go back to looking out of the window. You don't care if it's 'soft' but you don't like to think about that outcome to this building scenario. Devon is crazy, that much you know, completely deluded into thinking that if he talks long enough you'll go back to him. He takes no accountability to the disaster that your relationship was, and refuses to leave you be and move on. He's probably stalking you on social media  too, and the scary part about it all is that you don't know his information in order to block him. 

He could be anywhere, at anytime, and on and on your paranoia spins. So you bring up B again, the one whose Devil Eyes are trained on N'Jadaka but in a way that probably won't end in homicide. No, she's too busy being a famous rapper and you don't foresee her getting caught up in anything stupid for the sake of a man. 

A party fight, sure, but you don't get that energy from her. Just Devon.

N'Jadaka waves your concern about her away with one hand before returning it to his chin. He keeps touching his beard, a bit trimmed today, with this back and forth motion like it's a force of habit more than anything.

"She can act up if she wanna get popped in the mouth again, shit, simple as that."

"Let me do it, since i'm so good at it," you add uneasily, shifting in the passenger's seat. "But  _you_ don't touch her if she comes at you all crazy.. she's a girl."

All he does is give you a short glance before returning his eyes to the road. His voice is simple and true, holding a tone of complete indifference that unsettles you when he says, "Men, women; It ain't no difference when they fuck with what's mine."

 No more words are exchanged in the car ride.

 

* * *

 

 

You're still anxious when you make it back to his place, even after laying your shopping haul out on his bedroom floor to observe it all at once. It's that same nagging feeling that bugs you whenever you're alone and you can't understand why it's bothering you when N'Jadaka is present. Granted, he's doing something in the garage, but it feels a million miles away. 

There still isn't any food in your belly, you note with a grimace, but he promised he'd make you something only if you 'relaxed.' It's a near impossible thing for you to do most times,and even with all the body products you bought today you can't bring yourself to disrobe and try them out. Instead, you want to be annoying and be up under the man downstairs until you can calm down, so you start re-bagging all of your things. Pink, Sephora, Lush, The Body Shop and Kate Spade; all sitting pretty in a line underneath the dresser like cute little reminders of the obscene amount of money you spent today. 

The mundane process, like most of them, has you a little bit chilled out so you prepare to make your way down to the garage. Outside, you can hear the faint sounds of cars rumbling and voices shouting, but you think that maybe it's just N'Jadaka's loud friends being just that. 

But then you hit the bottom step, and you hear the banging, and you wonder if God has a problem with you lately. Sure, you haven't been to church in a while, but...

In a flash, N'Jadaka grabs you and you shout in surprise, the noise drowned out by King's barking and the awful commotion coming from outside. The house is spacious for California standards, but it's by no means a mansion, so you feel as if the walls of the bottom floor are rumbling with the sounds of your anxiety. 

King is running in circles around the two of you, stopping only to let out a few more barks before following you upstairs as N'Jadaka half-drags you by one arm. You're shaking and he realizes it at the top of the stairs, making sure to rub the sore spot forming from his iron grip. 

You don't even have time to ask what's happening because there's another loud, horrific noise, followed by the sounds of glass breaking. King almost goes back downstairs to investigate but N'Jadaka shouts at him to get his 'ass back up here.' 

It works, and your overgrown puppy dutifully follows the two of you to the end of the upstairs hall; past the bedroom and wear the statue is that freaks you out if you look at it too long. You've never set foot inside the room, having no idea if it's the size of the master bedroom or no bigger than a closet, but you notice that there's a keypad above the doorknob. 

N'Jadaka inputs a five digit code with a slowness that has you wondering if he's alarmed at all with the apparent war starting in his front yard, but you don't have time to ask before he's shoving you and King inside. The room is little more than extra storage, shoes and jewelry lining one wall while the others hold 'reclaimed' artifacts and weapons. Not all of them  _look_ like much but you can tell by the sheen and the texture of the metal that some of these things may be Vibranium. 

What catches your eye the most, however, is the odd necklace sitting in a case that looks as if it's made with the teeth of some animal. Perhaps ivory, but you feel like that may be a little distasteful considering what poachers do to those sweet elephants. 

You shriek out an inquiry about it and you don't know why, maybe to calm your nerves because no one is speaking but you're surprised to be met with an answer. 

"It's a suit," is all he says, pushing you into the back corner near a terrifying mask in a glass case. "Sit. Don't move until I come back and get you."

With that he turns to leave, and you're surprised you can croak out your next question on account of how shaken you are. 

"Will it protect you? Take it with you!"

He remarks that he isn't going to need it but you insist, and you're sure the terrified look in your eyes is what causes him to cave and slide it on  with nearly no effort. It looks gorgeous, primal even, sitting on top of his broad shoulders and defined chest like that. 

With another order not to move, he shoots that you have horrible taste in men before exiting the room with a slam of the door. It locks with a series of mechanical clicks and whirrs, leaving you in an ear-ringing silence that is remedied only by your heavy breathing and King's panting. He goes up to the door to bark at it as if calling N'Jadaka back, but you quickly shush him in case someone hears. 

You don't know what's going on out there, but N'Jadaka's snide comment implies that it has something to do with Devon. You don't think that he's ballsy enough to try and do anything on his own so he must have reinforcements in the way of his shitty friends that always made you uncomfortable whenever they came around.  And there's on thing for certain; he's on some kind of liquor because Devon was always at his most violent after some drinks. 

The apparent panic room you're in is almost completely soundproof, and if anything that makes it all the more terrifying that you can't see what's going on outside. It's locked from the outside, meaning you can't even escape if you wanted to, so that leaves you to anxiously pull your legs up to your chest on the small chair in the corner. It matches the couch downstairs, and you're sure N'Jadaka won't mind just this once if dog hair gets all over it because your 'terrifying' pit bull hops up to get in your lap.

"Ouch-King, you're not little anymore!" 

He could care less, wagging his tail and trying his damned hardest to fit his big self into the chair with you, and you suppose it's your fault  for holding him all the time when he was younger. However you do benefit from his energy, remembering the times when you got too anxious in high school and had to just sit and hug Zeus for a while. It always worked and had you understanding why people have therapy dogs. 

Humans don't deserve dogs.

Closing your eyes you begin to think of your baby, and most of the fear you feel is from trying to keep her safe from your own worry. Everything seems like it's trying to stress you out lately, and at this point you don't feel safe in N'Jadaka's cool house anymore. You don't feel safe alone at home, and you apartment is too small to accommodate two (soon to be three) people.  There's always the third option, but you can't ask him to move somewhere else for your sake although you doubt it'd take much convincing. 

It's just too dangerous for him to live here, now. Whether it be his parties or others' social media; half the world knows what his house and street look like. Maybe it'd benefit his piece of mind if he just simply, moved somewhere else. You don't feel he has an attachment to this place, nor does he seem to have many personal belongings outside of clothes so why not?

The thoughts preoccupy your mind for what feels like hours,concluding only when you begin to drift off to sleep. Your rumbling stomach wakes you and you flinch, feeling an absence where a black dog should be. He's curled up at your feet instead, probably having fallen off the chair at some point,  and he raises his head as you move to stand. Aching legs take you through the room that's so silent your ears are ringing, to do nothing else but try and press your ear to the door in a desperate effort to hear anything.

You're sure there's a release button somewhere, but the idea of being forgotten in here should something happen to N'Jadaka has you terrified. You can't imagine starving to death or worse; being stuck in a room with a dog that could turn on you should his hunger get too much to handle. N'Jadaka didn't think this through in the slightest, so confident that he'd win in any circumstance, and when the door swings open harshly you're sure he did.

At first.

 The unfamiliar figure advancing toward you is startling, and your first instinct at the sight of the menacing mask in your face is to scream  _'WHAT THE FUCK'_ in a voice so deep you hardly recognize it as your own. Despite the fact that a voice you very much do recognize is coming from within, all you can focus on is the down-turned eye holes and the intricate golden designs forming a permanent snarl with sharp fangs that twists the facial expression into a threatening visage that has you shaken. Apparently King is too, working himself into a half growl-half bark frenzy.

You notice the necklace as you've completely backed yourself into the opposite wall, shoulders relaxing after recognizing it as the one you told N'Jadaka to take with him in your blind panic. 

He's been calling your name over and over again and only now do you calm down enough to hear it. "It's me, relax!"

You're fully prepared to express more doubt because voice-changing tech is a thing you're sure, but the irritated sigh that escapes is one that you know all too well. The mask peels away bit by bit as if it's alive, followed by the rest of the suit and you watch in quiet fascination as it all retreats into the necklace as if it never existed in the first place.

 You expect N'Jadaka to take it off and place it back onto the display pedestal but instead, he leaves it on, huffing and clearly still full of adrenaline if his labored breathing is anything to go by. There's blood on him, and your eyes follow the mess up his arm and shoulder blade to reveal that it isn't the other party's gore. 

"Is that-a  _bullet- did you get shot?!"_

In fact, you see two wounds, and you're too shook to do anything but stutter and try to make your feet move closer to the man that's currently staining his pristine carpet with dark red blood. He looks down at himself as if he hadn't even noticed, touching a hand to the hole in his shoulder first before pulling back to look at how much blood remains. 

Suddenly he turns around to show you his back, asking only one question in an eerie calmness, "You see exit wounds?"

"Wha-"

"Do you see any exit wounds, ____."

There are two near identical holes, matching the ones on the front, and once you utter a confirmation he relaxes as if it isn't anything. You're sure he's been through worse than this, but you're still scared to death at his utter indifference that someone shot him twice on his own property. Bleeding still, he makes his way into the hall and across to his bedroom, you and King hot on his heels as he does so. 

You watch him pull out a first aid kit from under the bathroom sink with no idea on how to help without getting in the way. When he remarks in fascination that one of the bullets barely missed a major artery you feel sick, and you refuse to confront the knowledge that this fool really almost died for you. Or maybe for his own ego because you know he didn't put that damn suit on when he knows he should've. No, he probably wanted whomever to look him dead in the eyes.

"-therfucker was hidin' across the street in the dark like a bitch," he says, as if able to read your mind. "Probably the one."

"What if it was a hollow point bullet?!"

He only glances at you once through the mirror, continuing to give himself a temporary patch up to stop the bleeding. "It wasn't."

"But what if it was?"

"Then I probably would've bled out with how close this one was," he says in a matter-of-fact voice that drives you crazy. "But I told you imma be alright. Now go pack ya shit up, we leavin'."

You just look at him, no idea what to do with yourself but to try and weakly calm your heart rate because it's beating a mile a minute. You're feeling palpitations, a symptom of pregnancy that this situation can't be helping one bit, and  your body language must be what finally snaps N'Jadaka out of that Dark Place he gets to when he kills. All of a sudden that lack of emotion in his voice and the blank stare, the Devil Eyes, leaves him as he reaches a hand out to pull you close. You want to wince away from all the dried blood on him but he has you locked into place with his hands on the side of you head. 

He places a kiss to your forehead, slow, before asking if you're okay in the only way he knows how. "You good?"

"I'm good," you lie, letting out a large breath you didn't know you were holding. As long as it's over you suppose you will be soon enough. 

He gives you another forehead kiss before sending you away to gather your things. And what you have isn't much, mostly your newly bought haul and a beach bag with a few toiletries that you'd thrown in and left over. After all, you'd taken an Uber from home.

After a while N'Jadaka reemerges from the bathroom with gauze taped to his wounds and most of the blood washed away. You wait for his next instructions expectantly, having noticed the commotion of police lights reflecting through the window and onto the walls. He assures you that it's cool as he yanks on a hoodie, and you can't help but grab hold of his arm as you move. 

"Where are we going?" you ask, voice quiet as if you're hiding from someone. "Are you taking me home?"

"Nah," he says, whistling for King. "Can't risk you bein' there alone."

And just like that you're alarmed again. "What!?"

"One of em got away, and until I catch his ass I'm not riskin' it."

"Oh.."

He goes, "I'm droppin' King off and puttin' you up in a hotel until it's dealt with."

You struggle to hold all of your bags close to you as the two of you exit the house, careful to avoid the broken glass scattered over the front porch. Despite the fact that there are cops everywhere your first thought is how spotless N'Jadaka's car is, sitting untouched in the driveway. You assumed it'd be riddled with holes but it seems fine as he ushers you into the passenger's seat. He puts King in the backseat, right before ordering you to hold tight.

The thoughts from before come rolling back in, and you know that you've officially had it with this house. There's no way you're going to feel safe in it ever again. That's it, no way, and you know he has to have a place on standby for moments just like this. 

But now you're nervous for a hole other slew of reasons; he's alone out there with a bunch of cops and what's clearly a lawn littered with corpses. You count four all covered with sheets, and you wonder briefly if the messiest one with all of the blood red stain where the head should be, is what covers what used to be your ex.

 


	37. these violent delights have violent ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and in their triumph die, like fire and powder  
> which as they kiss, consume.
> 
> the sweetest honey is loathsome in it's own deliciousness.  
> so love moderately....
> 
> bitch.

 

 

\- - -

 

The clock on the shiny hotel night table confirms the fact that you haven't slept longer than an hour or so, kept awake by the lingering anxiety of the night's events. 

You're still alone, giving a slow once-over to the large suite one more time before sighing and trying to find a cool spot on the pillow. The rest of the night seemed like a blur, like a movie in fast-forward mode, and you still aren't sure that you've completely processed it all. 

Devon is dead, you think, and you don't know how you feel about it. Sure, he could've gotten away but you highly doubt N'Jadaka would've allowed him out of sight for a second. But you don't know, and he wouldn't tell you, only staring at the road with an intense silence that had you afraid to speak. 

There are cold barbecue wings and fries in the fridge, and a mess of your shopping bags all over the floor of the nicest hotel room you've ever been in. There's a small kitchen inside and a Jacuzzi-tub,  but a strict no-pet policy that had you dropping off King to your parents in secret. The lights were on in their bedroom, but you doubt they heard the heavy thud of N'Jadaka strong-arming King over the fence when he could've just opened it. You wanted to fight him, but in the mood he was in he probably would've impulsively elbow-dropped you.

Zeus nearly gave the two of you away, barking but unable to resist roughhousing with his stepbrother. The distraction let you get away, and now you wonder just where N'Jadaka ran off to. 

First, he had to have gotten medical attention, but on the other hand you don't like the thought of him running around trying to find the last One like a rabid animal. The uneasiness in your stomach grows, and you reach blindly in the dark for your cell phone and dial the fifth contact in your Favorites list.

It picks up on the fourth ring. 

"What you doin' up?" he asks, his voice all you hear from the other end. 

"I'm waiting on you," you say nervously. "Where are you? Are you coming back soon?"

He sighs hard, like he isn't pleased with all of your questioning, before saying, "Yeah, yeah. Imma be back soon,  baby, just chill out. Go back to sleep."

"But-"

"_____," he says firmly, cutting your words short. "Relax, aight?"

And the phone hangs up.

You let out a frustrated groan before trying your luck with the television, and it's complicated to figure out like all hotel tvs. When you finally give up and switch it off, you toss the remote somewhere on the Queen-sized bed before pulling a new plush blanket tighter around you. 

Since the hotel will apparently be your home for the next few days you made N'Jadaka stop at a Walmart on the way so you could run in and grab a few things. Hotel comforters aren't your favorite; even in ones as nice as this, so your first item was a King-sized plush blanket. Next, was a cheap pack of cotton underwear because the only clothes you have are from the mall. Normally that's fine, but you like to wash everything you wear first.

You're so caught up in the thoughts of what you're going to wear that you almost fail to notice the faint beep of the room door opening. At first you gasp, only to see it's N'Jadaka with the lights of the hallway behind him. 

He has several bags in his hands that he just tosses into the fridge without looking twice before sauntering over to you with a tired sigh. You expect a kiss, or a touch, or something other than him moving past the bed and taking a seat at the table near the large window.  

With the aid of the moonlight filtering in through the curtains you can only make up half his face; and he's staring dead at you with that intensity in his eyes that always makes you squirm uncomfortably. You get up to go use the bathroom and when you come back, he hasn't moved, still staring you down as you get back into bed. 

You just stare at him right back through one eye, head resting on your arms and your hair pulled back with a big banana clip. It's some late-night sew in you went to your normal hairdresser for right after taking out your braids and it had to be a house call because of her new baby. 

She had a boy, and you'd spent most of your appointment holding him and nearly crying at how cute he was. You'd accidentally let it slip that you're pregnant and she knocked off a hefty chunk of your bill, but not before chastising you about your weight.  _'You look like you lost a couple pounds since this summer, bitch, you'd better be eating!'_

Seconds continue to pass as your mind runs through the days that lead up to this moment, including the one in which you saw the man in front of you for the first time. The second your eyes met, you were doomed, that much is certain. Doomed to fall, doomed to love, or maybe doomed in the purest since of the word and for that you have to pray it doesn't turn out like that. 

But you're scared that it will, and that has a slew of other questions popping into your mind that you're afraid to address because of how they sound. You don't want N'Jadaka to get the wrong idea, but he will.

So instead you bring up something else, with, "Are you still bleeding?"

"Nah," he says, shaking his head. "I'm good."

"Okay," you sigh, trying to find a way to approach. "We need to talk."

"You leavin' me?" he suddenly asks, bluntly. "Hm?"

Frowning, you lean up with a short huff. "What? Well, maybe; no. Not like that. I just.."

Saying that you need a 'break' is something that never sounds good, and something that's always accompanied by a studio audience via some melodramatic moment in a sitcom. But truth is, if you're going to make it to a third trimester you  _have_ to get away for a couple weeks. You need a vacation, maybe a small little Girls Trip to take your mind off of everything that's been happening around you lately. It's tiring, and it's worrying, and you don't want to deal with it but maybe that's what needs to be done.

N'Jadaka isn't having it, already at a conclusion that you're leaving him and he  can't accept that. His tone hasn't changed, but you can tell by the slight flare in his nostrils that he's affected.

"You scared of me?"

"No!"

He just nods, slow, half his face still obscured in darkness and you can't tell if he knows how unsettling he appears to you right now. Maybe that's the point. 

You're not even sure he's blinked in the past few minutes, and you can't look away from him, not even for a second because you're not even sure he's really there. Suddenly, he snickers, eyes leaving yours for a second or two before they return. 

He repeats what you'd said, "You need a 'break', huh. It sound like you tryin' to leave me."

"I'm not-"

"You carryin'  _my_ child and you need a 'break.' I'm out here, killin' niggas for you, got my whole front yard lookin' like a warzone, bout to go to jail for you and you need a 'break.' Okay. Aight."

Exhausted from this attempt at a conversation, you flop tiredly back onto the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling with the beginnings of a headache coming on. You should've known better than to bring this up now when he's like this. His blood is up, and you know he's either going to fuck or kill his way down but you don't feel like opening your legs to him right now. You don't feel like doing much of anything, other than trying to understand what it is exactly you're feeling about the fact that Devon may be dead.

You shouldn't care, he was a skeevy asshole with no concern to your well being during and after your relationship. And even though you keep seeing his mother's assumed reaction every time you close your eyes, the other part of your brain is urging you to think more like the huffing man in front of you. 

He calls your name, and it comes out softer than you expect it to. Less angry, more hurt. Pleading, even, because he has it in his mind that you're leaving him and it's not exiting his thoughts. You fear you've accidentally pulled loose one of his fears and insecurities about losing everything he's ever cared about, but you have to think about yourself sometimes. You need a break from all this, no ifs ands or buts. 

You look at him again, turning your head slightly to see the way he's looking at you. The expression on his face reminds you of a child who's confused at why they're in trouble. But he's not in trouble, you are, clearly because your ex had more pull than you originally thought. You always seemed to run into him and B in similar situations and that has you thinking a little bit to yourself about a possible correlation. Devon  _was_ always a bit of a social climber, always bringing people over and introducing you to others, it was annoying. Now the idea is in your head that they've both been jealously conspiring against you and N'Jadaka and it won't leave. 

The look on his face is forcing you to get to your feet, anxious to wipe away that pitiful expression that's somehow even sadder on the face of a man like him. He watches you the entire time as you approach, staring up at you when you grasp his face with both of your hands.

"I'm tired," is all you say, shaking your head. "I'm anxious a lot, and I'm not eating, and..."

"Imma take care of you. I'm takin' care of all this shit, just gimme a couple days-"

The frustrated sigh comes out of your mouth before you can stop it, and you end up biting your lip so hard it hurts as it sounds worse than you mean it to. Truthfully, you feel shitty about all this; that entire altercation something that you wish never happened in the first place. You wished it didn't come to violence but that's what it seems like always has to happen. Sex and violence are things that seem to have you and N'Jadaka intrinsically linked. 

You just need a day to yourself. With no risk of getting kidnapped or harmed in any way but it seems impossible.

You're still holding his face when you admit that you're scared. You're scared when you're with him and you're scared when you aren't and you don't know how to make it stop. You're scared and you feel bad about making him go to all this trouble for you and your shitty baggage. His house got attacked because of your ex, he had to risk going to jail because of your ex, and now he has to move homes because you don't know how to pick men. 

Angry tears born of exhaustion start streaming down your face and your brain must be on something else because you just start apologizing. You don't know why you do it, but you do, burying your face into his shoulder and asking him over and over not to be mad at you because of Devon. All of that pitiful behavior you tried your hardest to unlearn is coming back tonight, and it just so happened to come when you needed to cry the most. 

Tomorrow you'll be glad that you cried, but now you just feel silly, especially when N'Jadaka finally stands to carry you back to the bed. He kisses you, hard, probably to shut you up but you can't stop now that you've started. You were so freaked out in that panic room of his you didn't know what to do, and for him to show back up in that mask with two holes in his body nearly had you feeling faint.

You can't speak because his lips are still on you, so you force the kiss to end by turning your head just a bit to utter your biggest regret of the night. 

"I'm sorry you got shot," you go, sniffling. "You almost died! For  _Devon._ "

"For  _you_ , ma." 

This makes you laugh through the tears that keep coming, and for once you feel tired enough to close your eyes for a few hours. He lets you know you'll be alright, that he will be too, but you're still adamant that you want to take a trip with your friends. The second he catches the rat that got away he'll let you know and for that you can't wait to escape the metaphorical Tower you've been locked in. 

You just want to  _go_ somewhere, maybe get some premium dick but even that is refused to you. When you ask he only  'hms' to himself before giving you a sloppy kiss that tastes like beer. 

"Go to sleep."

"You gonna be here when I wake up tomorrow?"

He smirks before saying, "I should be."

 

* * *

 

He isn't. 

Instead, you're met with a few missed calls and some texts from your girls and a  _long_ one from your father. There isn't anything from N'Jadaka, not even a gm text, but you're too hungry to be annoyed.  _Fuck_ is your stomach stuck to your back and you have to shoot out an apology to your baby as you roll over.

Now you have to maintain some lie about why you can't hang out with your girls or why King somehow ended up in your parents' backyard without you saying anything. You're good at lying to your parents, go figure, but the hardest part is getting your nosy friends off your tail. You just lie and say you're with 'Erik', and you will be for a few days. 

Kayla sends you a text first

_> okay, bitch don't end up with octoplets bc i'm not babysitting_

Sydney's is predictable in the group chat. 

_> > it's 'octuplets' . and me either_

**_> shut uuuuuuup my uterus is closed it's occupied for the next 6 months_ **

Your father on the other hand, apparently got beat up by your mother for his reaction to your pregnancy and his long-winded apology makes you feel a lot better about everything. His disapproval had you in your feelings, despite the fact that you really shouldn't give a shit about what anyone thinks. It's nice to have his apology, though, and you send a reply that jokingly implies that you'll only accept his apology if he barbecues for you.

The only acceptable apology is barbecue and that's that. 

Tossing the phone onto the bed you take the chance to take in your surroundings in the sunlight for the first time. The hotel room is massive, and the window has a stunning view of downtown that you've never seen from this high up. It almost makes you forget that you can't leave until you get the All Clear. 

"Damn," you mutter, frowning all the way to the bathroom. It takes you forever to figure out the shower, and when you finally redress in nothing but a tee and panties you feel like going right back to sleep.  

There's no aluminum foil so you have to use the microwave for your uneaten dinner, and everyone knows that microwaved french fries are bunk. While it's heating up you open the fridge and search through the stuff that N'Jadaka brought in last night. 

Just as you expect, it's full of random items like cheese, hummus, grapes, a pack of turkey bacon and like four melted tv dinners that should've gone in the freezer. He didn't even get you anything to drink, and the absurd contents just make you laugh because his mind was  _gone_ when he bought this stuff. 

For him to want you to be safe he must plan on delivering food for you whenever you want because his current meal plan is a whole Prison Diet. 

In fact, you call him, leaning against the bar in the kitchenette as you wait. 

"Wassup."

"Hi," you say, sighing. "Can I ask you something?"

"No I ain't caught em yet," he says , cutting you off. "I said gimme a couple days."

Rolling your eyes, you say, "You were supposed to be here with me like you said. And two, I'd better see you in a few hours because the food you bought looks like rations."

There's shuffling on the other end that sounds like wind hitting a speaker before he answers. "My bad. I'll bring you somethin' later. Listen.."

He doesn't even give you an option, already going off and interrogating you about who Devon may have known or any connections he may have had and for that you don't have an answer. When you dumped him, he acted like he didn't care but for the weeks following you thought you may have had to get a restraining order. Then he left you alone, only reappearing once you started seeing N'Jadaka. 

When the two of you were dating he'd often bring men around you, other women who weren't necessarily famous but always seemed to have money and some sort of notoriety. Thinking hard, you list off all of the names you can think of off the top of your head. As you do, he seems to have come to a conclusion because he suddenly chuckles. 

Confused, you utter a, "What," To which he only brushes your concern off. 

"Ya boy had more connections than we thought," he goes, amusement in his voice. "Aight, imma come by later, but you might have to stay a little longer while I get shit settled."

Letting out a long elongated whine that makes him laugh, you wonder just what's going on outside of these walls. He's 'taking care of business' but you don't know what that means. Is he staking out certain areas? Making sure Devon doesn't have 9000 shooters out here? You doubt it, but nothing will surprise you.

He sounds tired, and you bring that up as you messily bite into a barbecue wing. 

"I ain't really slept," he goes.

 A small moment of silence passes before he asks , "You still need a break, though?"

Timidly, you shrug as if he can see you. "I don't know."

"You don't know, huh."

"N, c'mon. You know how I feel about you; and you know why I said what I said. I'm just stressed out and I don't feel safe at your house or mine anymore. I have to go to work the day after tomorrow and I'm locked in this Castle Tower because I might get taken out by some goon by ex had or maybe it's him because I have this feeling that he's still  _out_ here somewhere."

You stay on the phone for a while after that, your food getting cold because N'Jadaka just doesn't seem like he wants to hang up. It's starting to worry you, because now you really think that Devon may still be out here and N'Jadaka isn't being honest with you. Some misguided attempt at not getting you to worry but the irony is...

At a certain point you just put the phone on speaker so you can finish eating, but he still won't speak whenever you throw in a comment or two. 

"You love me?"

The question comes out of left field, and it surprises you that he's said it after so many minutes of silence between the two of you. It doesn't have you feeling romantic or wanting to smile, it just has you unsettled because of the way he said it. His tone seems unsure, wondering, like he's upset about something and you're confused.

"Yeah," you say for the first time, you suppose. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'."

"N, what's wrong? What is it?"

He says he'll see you later and that's the end of the call. It's crazy how this entire situation has been his way of relaxing you as he goes out to war for you and it's done nothing but stress you out in the biggest way. 

 

* * *

 

A week goes by with no word from him, and enough time has passed for you to have disregarded his warnings not to go anywhere. He won't answer your calls and you can't have it in you to worry because then you'll fall into that valley again. Instead you go to work as normal, checking out of the hotel and returning to your apartment with a more cautious air about you. 

Pepper spray and a blade are in your bag, and that just has to be enough for now because you refuse to sit around and be complacent. You have a job and you have things to do, and as nice as that luxury suite was you just couldn't do it anymore.

And god were you hungry and sick of room service.

You're on the phone with Sydney when you get home from Target, having gone out after work to finally start looking at baby things. It did a great job of soothing your nerves after a particularly stressful day at work, and you have the cutest little outfits in your bag.

"We can go tomorrow if you want," you say, preparing to turn your key into the lock. "I think i'm gonna do a half -"

You swing the door open, stopping right in your tracks at the sight in front of you.  Sydney is asking you why you suddenly stopped talking but you can't pick your jaw off the ground fast enough to get her to stop yelling into the phone. 

Finally, you say, "Call you back," before hanging up and continuing to wonder why breaking and entering is apparently a Family Trait.

T'Challa is standing in your living room, a phone up to his ear as two Dora stand on the sides of you with their guards up just in case you were someone else.  Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of them, you'd almost missed them, and you raise your Target bags in surrender as if they'll harm you. 

"_____!" he calls, coming over to you with apparent relief in his voice. It's written all over his face. "Where have you been?"

"Uh, work," you stutter, confused. "Then I went to the store; what is it, why are you here?" 

He begins toward you so quickly you drop your bags in surprise, his grip on your arm firm enough to get you to follow him back outside. You lock the door back, heart beating a mile a minute as you're lead right back to where you came; the parking lot. There's a sense of urgency as he gets you into the backseat of an all black truck, a standard, and he doesn't even try to explain as he goes off in Xhosa to whomever is on the phone. You wonder if it's N'Jadaka, and when you ask you don't get a direct answer.

T'Challa just gives you a look before hurriedly finishing up his conversation.  His smile is kind but his eyes hold something else; he's frazzled and the first thing that comes to mind is that something happened to N'Jadaka.

"Is he okay? Is-"

The nameless Dora you don't recognize drives on, the car filled with a tense silence as you struggle to grasp what's happening around you. 

Sighing, T'Challa nods and soothes a bit of your anxieties with one sentence. "He's fine. Not much can keep  him down, I assure you."

"What's that mean?"

He chuckles. "It means that he's going to be relieved that you're safe."

Cryptic bullshit must also run in the family and it has your mind spinning. At the very least, he's safe, and no doubt ready to cuss you out for deviating from the plan. Sure, you acted alone and disobeyed orders but there was too much room for air within the plans for you to be content. What if something happened to him while you were in the hotel? Were you supposed to stay there infinitely, racking up entire house payments on room stays?

Or how about the panic room? Should he fail to come back in time you were either going to starve or be eaten by your dog. He's strong, he's powerful and a skilled killer but almost all of his plans hinge on his inability to factor in a timeline where he may lose.

It's so cocky and stupid you have to admire it a bit, but your reluctant admiration is cut short by the deafening sound of a loud horn. You look to the right of you just as the speeding Escalade careens right into the vehicle holding Wakandan royalty and you, carrying the baby of another royal. 

Everything happens so fast you don't know where your consciousness ends or begins again. All you can hear is the sound of tires screeching on asphalt and the shattering of glass. Shards pelt you across the face, scratching your cheeks and tangling in your hair as you open your mouth to emit a silent scream in terror. 

The worst part about it all is that you're conscious the entire length of the crash, completely aware of what's going on around you as the truck does pirouettes in the air above the intersection between Sixth and Lighthouse. It's where Kayla's favorite nail salon is,  and you wonder if she's there today to witness this scene straight out of an action film. 

It seems as if it takes ages for the car to land and when it does, all of the wind leaves your body and you can't tell if the sickening crunch is you or the expensive truck. Your ears are ringing and you feel hot, but other than that you're very much alive in the crumpled mass of metal and leather. 

To the left of you the door suddenly tears away from the truck, landing with a clang somewhere you can't see as a pair of claws extend toward you. They're gentle rather than threatening, as is the grip that pulls you out and into the street. The air is cool on your damp skin, and you could probably use emergency medical attention but you're too awestruck at seeing T'Challa in his full Black Panther regalia. And seeing it after N'Jadaka's variant has you appreciating the two as a unit. 

"Are you with me, beautiful?" he asks, jokingly as he pushes your hair back from your face. 

All you can muster is a weak thumbs up before everything goes dark. 

 

And when you wake, you're scared, not because of the pain you feel but because of the fighting coming from the other room. It's  _raucous,_ completely shaking the foundations of the building you're in and for a moment you're too focused on that rather than the fact that you were just in an accident. 

You flinch, jumping up at the realization that your pregnant ass was just in a bad accident but a voice to the right of you urges you not to freak out. 

You're in a room with several beds, surrounded on both sides by medical equipment and beeping computers. The funky designs on the walls let you know that this isn't a hospital, but rather a small lab belonging to the smiling girl standing next to you. 

"You're awake!" Shuri exclaims, relieved. "How are you feeling?"

It takes a second to find your voice and when you do, it's quiet and raspy, struggling to sound through your neck pain. "I'm breathing. But-"

She swivels around to the other side of the examination table in her chair, pointing to a monitor that's displaying a video on a looped playback. It looks like an ultrasound, and you can make out the profile of a baby accompanied by the sounds of a heartbeat.

"I'm not an expert on babies," she says, shrugging. "But...everything seemed okay from what I saw. See?"

There's so much going on that it's almost like you forget that you're currently bruised and bloodied, too focused on the wry smile Shuri is giving you from her lab chair. She's dressed rather casually, her braids in two buns and a funky sweater over a pair of orange pants. Her sneakers are absolutely crazy and you find yourself envying her style more than you are afraid of your well being.

She gets up to tend to your injuries a bit more, typing things into a computer and staring at what seems to be virtual diagrams of the trauma areas. That smile hasn't left her mouth once.

After a while she says, "Congratulations," to which you snort in amusement. 

"All this shit that's happened to me these past few months...I'm surprised she hasn't jumped ship."

"Uhhh, glory to Bast!" she shouts, hands up in the air as she stares at you. "Hello, genius, you should be shouting from the rooftops that you and Baby are safe! And don't talk!"

She's right, but everything hurts, and you don't know who 'Bast' is but you say your silent thanks that you've made it. You've made it and so has your baby, but after all she  _is_ half Killmonger. 

You stay put, getting patched up in ways that Shuri hilariously explains that she can't fix your injuries that quickly as she's away from all her 'good stuff' back home. At this you finally learn where you are; the Outreach center in Oakland in a sort of makeshift infirmary for staff scrapes and bruises. 

She suggests that you may want to go see a doctor as far as checking on your baby later, too unused to dealing with fetuses to speak with too much certainty. You listen to the breakdown of your injuries, struggling to put yourself in front of the bathroom mirror to observe your current state. What you see is annoying more than anything, the soft cervical collar being the most noticeable eyesore that's found its way onto your person. 

There's  a gash on your cheek, stitched up and covered with a bandage, as well as a vicious black eye that will take so much foundation to cover you may as well not even bother. Aside from that you feel fine; sore, but fine.

The whirlwind of shouting coming from outside the room has subsided a bit, replaced only by heavy footsteps that grow louder the closer they get to you. Shuri rolls her eyes at the slamming of the door against the wall, making sure to clear the way as N'Jadaka comes storming toward you like you owe him money.

You think that maybe this is his 'worried' look, but it doesn't help that he was just barking at T'Challa like a pit in a dogfight. He grabs your arm, declaring that y'all are 'out', and to this T'Challa has to shake his head. 

"It was an  _accident,_ N'Jadaka. A drunk driver, nothing more."

He doesn't want to hear it, jerking you around like your bones haven't all shifted in his anger. "Accident my ass, nigga, I told you to keep her safe while I was held up. Gotta do everything my damn self, apparently."

Folding his arms, T'Challa leans against a nearby cabinet before saying, "Yes, like taking out a drug ring by yourself."

"I did it, didn't I?"

"Barely," Shuri says, bent low over a screen. "You were bleeding like a panther got to you. If my brother hadn't found you-"

N'Jadaka sucks his teeth, and you just want to know what the hell is going on. You feel faint, and no one is paying attention to you because they're too busy trying to calm N'Jadaka down from the Level 100 octave he's risen to. He's angry, his blood is up, and he's too far into this tirade to stop himself. He's angry at Devon and he's angry at his shit being fucked up and he's angry at you, apparently, for not staying put and making him worry. 

It's nice to know he was worrying himself sick about you, but as you get ready to pass out for a second time you do feel a little warm inside. This big ass softie.

 

 

*  *  *

 

The next wave of consciousness makes more sense, or rather, you're being tended to by a doctor in a hospital rather than a stylish teenaged girl. However you know that if you were in her  actual lab you'd probably be a-okay right now. Instead, you're letting you a pitiful sounding groan at the fact that your muscles have seized up even more since you've been out.

The tall black woman in front of you smiles, holding her clipboard close to her white jacket and scrub-clad body. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail at the back of her neck and she seems like a rich auntie who doesn't have kids but would rather spoil her neices and nephews. Maybe it's the red lipstick or the crinkles in her eyes as she gives you good news.

"Good evening, Miss _______," she says. "You doin' okay?"

"My b-"

"Baby's fine, you are too mama, don't worry. And don't try and talk, please. Your neck is very swollen, I wouldn't until it goes down."

You sit up, remembering how Shuri told you not to talk earlier as well. And here you thought she was oddly telling you to shut up like N'Jadaka does.

 You're not actually in a hospital room, just behind a curtain in the middle of what you're sure is many of the same if the chattering you can hear is any indication.

The doctor writes something down on her clipboard before telling you that it's not every day half the Wakandan Royal Family drops off an unconscious pregnant girl and for that you have to shrug because there's a first time for everything. You do notice however, that the soft collar around your neck has been replaced by those restricting, rigid plastic neck braces. 

On your left arm is a cast, and when you look to the doctor in confusion she only sighs with a shake of her head. 

"The Princess let us know very clearly that the uh, one with the dreadlocks dropped you on the way in here so that's why you apparently have a broken wrist."

It's almost like he does it on purpose, pushing open the curtain and coming over to you looking like death himself. You roll your eyes at him for dropping you, jerking your healthy right arm from him as he sits next to you. 

He sucks his teeth, like always. "What?"

You just grumble at him, throat feeling much worse than before. It hurts to speak, or even to attempt, and you just want to go home and go to sleep. He brushes your attitude off and starts talking to the doctor, leaving you to examine the way he looks standing in front of you. There's a cut on his face as well, though it's nowhere near as bad as yours, and a few spots of dried blood on his tight grey shirt. 

The doctor keeps looking at his arms as he talks, trying to pretend that whatever is on her clipboard is more interesting than the bulging muscles in front of her. 

His dreads are all over his forehead, like they usually are when he wakes up in the morning, but you can't appreciate it because of the context. He looks like he's literally fought an entire war for you, and you hate that your throat hurts so bad because you ache to know what happened. It feels like it's been forever since you've seen him, and the whole fiasco with Devon seems serious if T'Challa has gone through the trouble of coming back to America.

You feel like a bad luck magnet, and you wonder why God is putting you through it. Maybe the man helping you up is actually the bad luck charm and it has you thinking of a way to break the spell as he does. Maybe it's Devon; the blight on your spirit that won't leave by any means necessary.

Judging by N'Jadaka's vibe, though, he's shown your ex the holiest of doors. 

By the time you get to the elevators your legs are close to giving out, forcing you to stop and lean against the nearest wall. Your head hurts, your neck hurts, your arm and everything else as well and the worst part about it all is the limited amount of painkillers you can take. 

Ramirez says that acetaminophen is fine but that isn't what the doctor just wrote you a prescription for. You pocket it, annoyed, before lifting your arms to indicate that N'Jadaka better carry you. He's uncharacteristically silent the entire time it takes to get you to (your) Jeep, not even uttering a smart comment when you insert one of your favorite CDs into the player. 

Who knows where your phone is, probably a shattered mess at the bottom of your purse. 

While you ride, you think about the new year and all it will have to offer you as a bit of an optimistic therapy after the fiasco of today. You think that maybe your therapist would like to see you soon, imagining the smell of her office as buildings whip past you outside. The sun is nearly setting and you close your eyes, the mental image of Therapy Sessions doing a good job of relaxing you.

The books, dusty on the shelf, with the smell of coffee and fresh warm printer paper that combines into a fragrance that takes you back to your school days oddly enough. It reminds you of the library.

Outside is a part of Oakland you haven't seen before, living just outside the city and never having much reason to go much farther than you've usually been. For one thing, you've never been to the Outreach Center and you're bummed out that your first visit was because some drunk asshole ran into T'Challa. 

N'Jadaka's voice cuts off the silence just as you lean your head against the window, watching the kids playing basketball in the court next to you. The hoop doesn't have a net, so worn down from years of games that it's barely holding up.

"I got a court date," he says, turning down your music. "Don't worry about me, though. That bitch had it coming."

For a second you're scared he's talking about B but he quickly  elaborates once seeing the look on your face.

"Nah, that nigga Deacon or whatever the fuck. Dover. Bitch ass cried when I emptied that full clip into his-"

He just stops, pausing to glance over at your horrified expression before grumbling under his breath. You've had it with talks of violence right about now and it'd be fine with you if you never find out how the showdown between the two of them went. You don't care, because that was then and this is now. Now you're in need of some TLC, now you're going to have to call off work again and now you won't be able to get your back broken without actually feeling like your back is being broken.

This silence must be making N'Jadaka antsy because he keeps trying to fill it in one way or another. Maybe it's your inability to answer back.

"You were supposed to wait at the hotel," he says, tapping the steering wheel with one hand. "When Sean told me you weren't there I thought somebody got you."

You don't know which one of his boys is named 'Sean,' but it's not important, you suppose.

"But no, _____ disobedient ass was at work. Walkin' around comfortable like she ain't scared of nobody."

You shrug.

He chuckles before letting it taper off into more silence, the smirk on his face dropping off into a more serious expression that has you curious as to its origins. But then you remember how you look right now and suddenly the way he takes your broken wrist to grip your hand makes sense. He kisses the blue plaster cast where the back of your hand would be were you not wearing the ugly thing before shaking his head. 

"I almost killed his ass for real when he said you was in that truck too on the phone. Saw that shit flip three times on the news."

"Hm."

"You okay, though?" he suddenly asks, looking you over. "You good?"

You shake your head, smiling a bit because you can't really be good right now if you tried. But there's something he isn't telling you and you can see the obvious discomfort written all over his features. You want to say something so bad but your throat  _screams_ the second you try and open your mouth so you can't express how worried you are, even still.

All you can do is blink and shake your head at whatever he says, only able to croak out incomplete sentences later on after some acetaminophen and a cup of hot tea. You don't know what's bothering him and you just want to know why he's being so finicky, acting so anxious because you're feeding off of his vibe and it's not feeling good. 

He's staring at the tv in your living room when you approach him from behind,  offering your own energy in the form of wrapping your arms around his neck in the best way that you can.  You don't expect it, nor do you like it in this context, but that question pops right back up from before and it has you just as anxious as the first time. 

"You love me?"

You nod, still holding his neck. It's weird, you think, how you suddenly get the urge to not let go for fear that you may not get another chance for a while. You don't know what that means, or why you feel so weird about it, but you think that maybe the way he doesn't want you to let go either is very telling.

Your throat burns as you ask, but the question comes out before you can think about the pain.

"How long are you gonna be gone?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he did it all for you


	38. lonely redux

  
  
  
  
  
  
It's silent for the rest of the night, and you can't sleep through the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. The wind sounds eerie outside of your bedroom window, it being all you can focus on as you lie awake with your eyes on the ceiling. After all that's happened, you don't really think you've ever considered a scenario where N'Jadaka would get into trouble doing all this, especially since he's been able to avoid jail so far.

As far as you know, that is.

You feel like shit, both physically and mentally, and the worst part about it all is his flippant reaction to him going away. He says he'll be alright, and when you asked how long he said with an intense growl that he's going to be there to see his baby be born. That was it. He promised, and it made you feel better, because that's about six months from now but you hope he doesn't stay that long. He's a prince, and you're sure he has enough pull to maybe half that.

Hell, maybe cut it to a quarter.

He'd run whatever prison he'd get into but that's worrying for a whole other slew of reasons.

"You hungry?"

When you look over, he's standing in the doorway of your bedroom, filling the space effortlessly in nothing but sweatpants. He's pretty bruised up himself from what little you've seen, and you shudder to think how he'll react once he sees you entirely. You're unable to really hide now, wearing nothing but a sports bra and boyshorts as you attempt to rest, and once that light comes on it's all over.

N'Jadaka just stares at you, frowning, before stalking over to you and roughly sitting down on the edge of the bed. It's like every time he sees that you're hurt he gets angry, but that's not what you need him to be right now. You need reassurance, so you ask again:

"You won't be gone that long, right?"

He shakes his head.

"Are you sure?"

He shushes you before saying, "Three months tops, baby, that's it."

It's still too long but you leave it alone for now, wondering what you're going to do as far as explaining this entire situation to your parents. Your mom won't get on you for it but your dad will definitely not be pleased that his daughter's 'thug' baby daddy is doing jail time.

You hum in frustration, annoyed that you can't sleep on your stomach or your side or do anything but lay still and hurt. The neck brace is ridiculously restricting and it's a lot of fanfare for a swollen neck. It's not like you broke it, and Shuri's makeshift collar allowed you to at least turn your head.

Funnily enough, N'Jadaka has something to say about this as his eyes rake over your bruised body. "I had goddamn vibranium in my lungs and they healed me; she can't even fix this."

"She said h-"

His hand goes to your lips, silencing you. Not talking is a major thing to ask of someone and you can't help it, despite the way your voice rasps and contracts your throat painfully. You talk anyway.

"Surgery ain't the same as bruising," you say. "I'm swollen, not bleeding out."

"I thought I told you to be quiet."

"When's your court date? Can I come?"

To this he denies you, scoffing like it's an absurd thing to ask, but you know he's the type to want to save face so there's that. You know he doesn't give a fuck and won't do anything but stare the judge down but you just need to know. You need to know what he did and why he's being charged for self -defense; unless that sneaking suspicion you have is true.

"Hey," you rasp, tapping him to bring his attention off of examining your bruises. "What did you do? Tell me."

He just looks at you and you ask him where Devon was because you  _know_ he wasn't one of the bodies on the lawn. That worry never left your spirit, that blight, and you're convinced Devon Sanders didn't die until very recently. You think this is why he's in trouble.

N'Jadaka rolls his eyes and relaxes across the bed, staring hard at you as he expresses his irritation at this entire situation. You don't expect him to say what he does next, but it throws the entire situation into perspective.

"I got his ass last," he goes, snorting. "Maybe it was messier than it should've been and maybe there was witnesses but that don't matter. None of it does."

"Tell me your court date."

"It's soon. You don't need to be there, actin' up and cryin' like I'm goin' away for life. Imma get enough of that from them."

You're confused, but your throat hurts too much to ask now. You've ruined it, and you don't think you can speak for another 72 hours. So instead you grab the pen and notepad from your nightstand, a leftover from some appointment you made in bed one morning.

You write :  _Who's Them?_

"T and his damn moms; they get on my nerves."

_Are they gonna be sad?_

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head and saying, "Shit, no. I'm gettin' lectures from both ends.  _'That was sloppy, that was messy, you have to think about how you look to the public.'_ Like I give a fuck. Whether or not it was sloppy is irrelevant; my black ass ain't his buddy Steve Rogers or that white jesus lookin'-"

You hurriedly scribble:  _His name is James Buchanan Barnes and I had to do a report on him in high school. It's funny that he's still alive-_

N'Jadaka only keeps on talking, not even bothering to read the rest of your chickenscratch. "Anyways, they can fuck shit up in public and be fine. I gotta go through all this bullshit and sit in a damn facility somewhere for 3 goddamn months only to be let right back out. Probably isolated because i'm 'dangerous..' I'd better not catch you fuckin' around with other niggas, though. I got eyes everywhere."

You scoff, because he must think really low of you if he thinks you're going to stray in 3 months. You're going to spend the time working and pregnant and being mad and spending large amounts of money on retail therapy. But he's really adamant that you'd have him fucked up if you try anything dumb, and that you'd better be smart.

_What about visitation?_

"You can try, but they like to act slow as fuck so you might not even get on my list until the 3 months are up."

You pause, before writing that he'd better be good so he can actually only be gone that long and he actually smirks before giving you a quick peck on the lips. Yours are so chapped you're shocked he doesn't have a cheeky comment to make. Instead, his eyes get serious again and he proves very quickly that he has issues with being separated from you for so long but that's fine. He'll be fine and so will you, you think.

"Enjoy ya break from me, ma, because after this you ain't gettin' another one."

His bullet wounds are freshly stitched up and they're all you can see.

-  
  
  
  
  
  


The hard banging on your front door at 11 the next morning hardly gives you enough time to comprehend the key left on your coffee table. It's early and you're sad, because you know that your fool of a man is already started the process to give you the 'break' you so desired. Now you feel stupid for mentioning it but maybe this will all be good for the both of you.

You just have to remember that it'll be spring when he gets out.

The key is attached to a tab with a number on it and the slip of paper has an address with a message underneath.

_Sean will take care of everything while i'm out. Don't worry; just listen. Imma call you when I can._

Below it is a messier note, scribbled hastily at the last second it seems.

_And if he try anything tell me. that nigga think he slick sometimes._

You suppose that's who's knocking on your door like they're crazy because you've seen him at N'Jadaka's house once. He's not much taller than you are and lightskinned, with sleepy eyes and a full beard that you don't think you like very much. You prefer the chin-strap thing N'Jadaka has going on instead.(Even if it's a little uneven in spots).

In too much pain to really express your disgust at his waking you up, you tiredly lift up the key and note with absolutely no words to the man in front of you. He seems sorry now that he's seen the way you look.

"Damn," he goes, observing you. "Well uh, I just came to tell you we takin' care of moving all the furniture and stuff so you don't have to worry about it while you gone."

Confused, you just furrow your brow and utter a hoarse 'what?'

"Oh. Erik ain't tell you? Uh...you gotta break ya lease, sweetheart because he don't want you living here anymore. Especially not while he's out."

You just put your hands on your hips, wondering when all of this was decided for you. Yes, you want to move after you decided you no longer felt safe at either of your homes but it's awfully nice of 'Erik' to drop this on you despite not being present. Sometimes you wonder how he does things so quickly, it drives you crazy.

"So," you sigh, exhausted. "What am I supposed to do while all of this is being taken care of?"

Sean shrugs, his leather jacket rustling as he does so. "Shit, sweetheart, I dunno. Go take a walk, stay in a nice hotel, don't come back until you get the call."

Honestly, you're sick of all of this already and you just resign yourself to the fact that you're going to be yanked around like a Sim for while. You don't know how you're going to break it to your boss that you need yet another week off before your extended maternity leave even happens, but you're sure your appearance at work today will be enough to persuade him.

Condescendingly, you ask if the hotel room has already been reserved for you, and when Sean confirms that it has you want to scream.

But then you see that it's a nice little resort in San Francisco and you decide to bite because you've never been. A place in LA would've been nice too but you decide to reserve those for Girl Trips with your friends.

Taking the brochure with a roll of your eyes you retreat back into your apartment, wondering how in the hell you're going to break your lease on such short notice. This is an amazing apartment complex, and all you can think of is whether or not you'll eventually want to return here and them not letting you. That, and the deposit you have to forfeit is nearly 2500 fucking dollars.

Fucking Devon, and you curse his name the entire time it takes you to get ready for work. Everything hurts, and Sydney is coming over soon to carpool, and you just want to disappear into the floor for a bit because you can't take it.

You've only managed to pull on a pair of high waisted jeans and your shoes when you hear the knocking on your door, and you groan because you can't put a shirt on over this damn neck brace.

Going to the door in your bra, you peer out of the peephole to see if it's Sydney or one of N'Jadaka's boys. When you swing the door open she just stares at you, her smile falling the second you blink.

"What the fuck?!"

"Car accident," you whisper, letting her in. "I'm okay."

"Are you?!" She's just gawking at you, mostly at the neck brace and the black eye. You assure her that the baby is fine too before handing her scissors so she can cut the neck brace off you. You have no idea how they work and if you have to wear it outside you think you're going to lose it. You know she's about two seconds from calling Kayla and the second she pulls out her cell phone you break down crying.

It's like the weight of yesterday and your very near-death experience and the fact that you're moving and alone for the most part finally hits you, and you can't stop your pitiful little tears from falling. You think that maybe this is a breakdown, but you don't stop until Sydney helps you take the brace off. The air hitting your bare neck is cold and it feels clammy to the touch, but not having that restricting plastic contraption hemming you up is nice.

As you pull your button up on, Sydney is still regarding you with cautious eyes with her phone up to her ear. She's been muttering to Kayla forever about the condition of you, and at this point you already know one of their asses is going to blab to your parents and that's an entirely different conversation. Just like what she asks you next.

"Well, where's Erik?"

You really don't want to tell her that he's in jail so you just lie and say he's overseas, until the inevitable truth comes out. You know someone like him going away will make the news and it'll be all downhill from there.

Maybe disappearing to San Francisco for a week is exactly what you need right about now.   
  
  


* * *  
  
  


After careful consideration, you drive yourself to San Francisco rather than taking a lyft, so you feel more in control which is a step in the right direction.

It's bright and sunny out as you hand off your car to the valet at  _The Fairmont,_ and you almost get taken out by another as you're too busy admiring the classic look of the hotel's architecture. It's gorgeous, a million windows stretching high into the sky above you with this grandiose design that reminds you of ancient Rome.

You readjust the earbud in your ear to let your mom know you made it safely, and she hums from the other line. They'd all reacted how you assumed once you revealed that you were in a car accident but knowing that you were saved by T'Challa got the heat off of you for a while because all they wanted to know was what he was like. Your mother acted like a fangirl, talking about black royalty and kings but your father was more suspicious, asking you why you were in a royal vehicle to begin with.

Unbeknownst to you, the accident was all over the news; you included. The drunk driver that slammed into a vehicle carrying  _King T'Challa of Wakanda, several royal guards, and a Young woman believed to be connected to the Black Panther's volatile cousin while evading police capture._ Of course it made it to the evening news but luckily for you they didn't say your name.

However, they definitely said  _Erik Stevens,_ and after showing a picture of him your father finally got the clue. Seeing your state managed to get you off the hook and you didn't get to hear his mouth, but the look in his eyes was all the same. Both your parents know he's in jail now, as do your friends, and you were clear to everyone that you don't want to hear it. Yes, the predisposed ideas of who they think N'Jadaka was or will be seemed to come true, but he won't be there for long.

They think he's dangerous now, too much for you because he's violent and he's Killmonger and a villain and a fiend.

You don't care.

"So, he's out in 3 months, that's it?" your mom asks for the hundredth time. "That's what manslaughter gets you, huh?"

You just roll your eyes, making sure your bags are set properly on the trolley before you push them away. "Devon had it coming, mom, that's all I have to say about it."

"It was Devon?!"

Oops.

Sighing again, you say, "Yeah, and he lost his damn mind and tried to shoot up Erik's house and I didn't want it to come to that either but that's where we are."

This whole time you've been muttering quietly to yourself so as not to alarm any of the people in the lobby, but this at least has your mom silenced for a few seconds. An empty spot opens at the desk in front of you so you say you'll call her back later even though you won't. At least not today.

Instead, you get to stare at the shiny  _gorgeous_ lobby in front of you as you check in, surprised that N'Jadaka picked this place out of everything else. There's so much for you to do around here that it kind of makes you wish you weren't alone, but at the same time you're glad. No one to argue with, no one to treat you like a kid, just no one but you.

And the first thing you plan to do is go find the spa, it's all on your mind as you make your way to the elevators with your luggage. The woman at the desk treated you like a special guest, letting you know that there's something waiting for you in your suite upstairs. You want to be excited but hell, that could mean anything, and it has you on edge once you finally get to the large brown door with  _423_ on it.

N'Jadaka's irritating voice urging you to be cautious is playing in your mind as you peek into the room, listening to make sure no one is hiding inside. The suite is large, with a living room, kitchen, and bedroom, and after you've thoroughly checked the entirety of it you finally breath.

On the table in the living room is a basket that says 'Welcome,' with an added little card that urges you to 'enjoy your stay.' Inside are random items; boxes of girl scout cookies, a bottle of sparkling juice, and a few coupons to the spa.

"Okay," you mutter to yourself, aching for the box of Samoas, but the phone rings before you can unwrap the cellophane.

It takes you a second to find it, buzzing like an office phone on the desk by the patio, and when you answer it you don't want to let it touch your face.

"..Hello?"

It hangs up almost immediately, but you don't have the time to feel uneasy because your cell phone rings next.

"...He-"

"How you like it?"

You weren't expecting to hear that deep voice so soon, and definitely not without hearing ' _This is a collect call from..'_

When you express this confusion, all N'Jadaka has to say is that he's got connections, and to you this just means he has a cell that he shouldn't have but no one is bold enough to snitch. You think that's funny, but the phone call you just got to the room is still making your anxiety spike up.

He asks you what's wrong and you tell him that you got a 'prank call.'

"Oh," he goes. "That was me. Didn't want you to put that nasty ass hotel phone up to ya face."

"Wow," you say, surprised. "My thoughts exactly,  _look at you_!"

He chuckles before commenting on the hoarseness of your voice, to which you let him know that you took the neck brace off because it was driving you crazy. It's wild how he's only been gone about two days now and you're acting like it's been two years, blabbing about everything that you went through as if he wasn't there for much of it. You talk about how your coworkers reacted when you and Sydney came in, and how everyone looks at you like you're a broken doll that needs fixing.

It makes you want to run away.

A moment of silence passes where you run out of things to say, staring at the city below you through the window, and all you hear is the distant chattering coming from the other end. Suddenly you feel very shy as if you forgot how to talk to him now that he's not looking at you.

"Sean give you the keys?" he suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," you mutter, remembering the shiny gold set. "He told me I'm going to have to break my lease but I don't know if I can do that on such short notice."

"It's been done."

"Wh-how can y'all just do shit in my name without me knowing?"

You expect his  _'i got connections'_ when it comes, but he also has a way of intimidating people into bending to his will but you don't open your mouth and say anything about it. Instead, you inquire about where the keys lead because you're curious.

Being the difficult man that he is, N'Jadaka says, "It's where you gon be livin'. Don't worry about moving I got you. Just relax until you get a call."

"Sick of everyone telling me to relax," you pout, turning away from the window finally. "So...I'm really moving on short notice, huh. By myself."

"Yes."

"What about you?"

"Shit, it's big enough," he goes. "I guess my stuff is goin' in storage until I find a house."

"So it isn't a house?"

He tells you that it's a large, modern, loft that you know costs an arm and a leg before letting you know he has to go. As he's speaking, you purse your lips at the way his voice sounds, noticing something you don't think you've paid much attention to. He's telling you to do something or other with his nasty ass and you cut him off just before he can finish his sentence.

Confused, you ask, "How come you sound like that?"

He goes, "Like what," bluntly and you hum to yourself as you try and pinpoint the familiarity of his tone.

Then, you get it.

"Are you wearing a retainer?" You ask, grinning. "Where'd that little lisp come from? How long have you had one?"

"Since I met ya scatterbrained ass," he says. "Now hang up;I'll call you later."

You try and remember when he could've been wearing it without you noticing but the spa coupons distract you. The first one is a 45 minute In-Room massage while the others are for the Sauna, and Beauty Package. You could definitely use a pedicure and the accident broke a few of your nails, but you don't know how a facial is going to work with the stitches on your face.

It's been hard to ignore them the past few days, and you're trying hard not to fixate on the fact that you're going to have a mean scar when they heal. But maybe you'll get lucky, maybe the only evidence of this terrible event will be the fact that your left wrist will ache in the rain.

Maybe it's because it's so soon into your "break," but you can't help but feel a little lonesome as you dial the number on the coupon.

You hope he calls you back soon.


	39. a short three months

 

_"Stevens?"_

You look up from your nervous hands at the stern guard in front of you, dressed in her crisp blue-black slacks and gun on her hip. No one else is in the room with you, having been called for visitation what feels like hours ago via alphabetical order, and you've been baking in the cheap plastic chairs that remind you vaguely of elementary school. 

At first, your break from the craziness of your life seemed unbearably lonely and you found yourself in a fit of melancholy that lasted until about the beginning of March when your birthday hit. You were indulged with Shirley Temples and cupcakes and you fell asleep into the vanilla buttercream frosting. 

But then you were Okay, having gotten used to the loft apartment that's much too big for you by yourself, and treasuring the sporadic phone calls you got from N'Jadaka. But then he told you he wanted to see you, your name being cleared for visitation a week and a half before his actual release. 

It's better late than never, you suppose, but you find yourself fidgeting as you slowly pull yourself to your feet. That baby of yours has made herself nice and comfortable inside you now, your stomach so round it's impossible to think you had a large lunch. She's not very active, that's for sure, and your friends expressed surprise at the fact that they thought you'd be bigger so close to your third trimester.

You're not complaining, at the size at least, because she's sitting rather high and round which saved you from that protruding oblong-shaped pregnancy stomach some of the women in your yoga class have. 

You could do without her curb-stomping you in the ribs late at night, though.

The guard is rather impatiently holding the door for you up ahead, making you sigh in irritation because you're moving as fast as you can and this baby has fucked up your alignment something awful. You feel like a car that lost an axle sometimes when you walk, and although yoga is helping, you're won't be moving with purpose anytime soon. 

"I'm coming," you huff, already starting to sweat. There doesn't seem to be any air conditioning in the lobby of the facility, and it's ironic considering the cold atmosphere of your surroundings. The dark blue paint on the cinderblock walls, the heavy clanging of doors shutting in the distance and the errant beeping of something you can't see unlocking.

You slip off your black converse as quickly as you can, rolling your eyes at the theatrics of it all. The guard with an attitude takes your shoes and looks through them as a different, male one, takes his time feeling your legs and thighs for imaginary paraphernalia. There's not much you can hide in a short-sleeved black babydoll dress but apparently he thinks your stomach is fake if the way he keeps feeling it is any indication. 

After a bit you just say, "I'm pregnant," to which he scoffs and makes you open your mouth.

They finish their show, making sure you aren't hiding a blade in your socks or armpits or whatever, letting loose another loud beep as you step through another doorway. 

Now the oppressive silence is gone, replaced with loud and animated talking from everyone inside the Visitor's Room. Honestly, you expected the stereotypical spiel for all this; glass and shitty chairs where you'd sit and talk through a gross phone up to your ear.

Instead, there's chairs and tables and people everywhere, talking and laughing and getting up to get food from the wall of vending machines to the left of you. There's a couple guards in here as well, sitting behind a desk near the entrance and another door that leads to a gated courtyard with a few picnic tables outside. 

You look around curiously, several inmates observing you with thinly veiled attraction, beginning to get overwhelmed by the amount of people in here. You brush a piece of hair behind your ear before adjusting your sunglasses on their perch ontop of your head, once again rocking a long sew-in that you tried to wand curl but quit after doing two pieces at the front of your head. 

"Aye," says a voice that cuts through the crowd. "Lil bit."

There's no one to the left, or to the right, so you stand there with a furrowed brow trying to figure out where to go. 

"_____."

You're being addressed from behind and slightly to the right, and when you turn you see that gorgeous man just watching you expectantly at a silver table. He's leaning back in his chair, arms resting in front of him , and when he stands to greet you you see the heavy chains on his wrists. 

Nervously you  go over to him, watching the way he observes your limp and crooked walk with a frown on his face. Yours, however, is breaking out into a grin the closer you get, and when he can't really hug you it makes you sad. 

You can hug him, though, only quickly as the guard has something to say about it soon enough. 

N'Jadaka sucks his teeth as the two of you sit, giving that Mean Guard the side eye as she glares at you from the corner.  When he finally re-trains his eyes to you, he wants you to get up again, jerking his head to tell you to come over.

"C'mere," he says, chains jangling on the tabletop. "Lemme see her."

When you stand up again and move to his side of the table, he stays seated, allowing your protruding belly to be nearly at his face-level. That flippant, don't-give-a-fuck look in his eyes disappears as he palms your stomach, and it's just when he smirks that someone clears their voice from the right of you. It's that Mean Guard, who keeps giving you the stank face for no reason other than you think she wanted the man in front of you to be balls-deep in her abandoned tomb 3 months ago. You can just tell, could see it in her eyes when she called you in the waiting room earlier. 

N'Jadaka just looks at her, daring, like she's a bad ass little kid that he won't think twice about disciplining in front of all these people. "What."

"Watch your hands," she shoots, pointing a warning finger at the two of you. 

He suddenly shoots to his feet, tilting his head and squaring his shoulders at her because he truly fears no one and needs her to know that. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor has several people hushed as they observe him 'mouth off' about how bullshit it is that he has to wear chains to visitation, and that she'd better be glad he's almost out.

You don't even let him finish that sentence, tugging him down by the sleeve of his pressed blue shirt. He holds eye contact with her the entire time, not releasing until you whisper his name to bring the attention back to you. It's funny, you think, that the guard only mutters something about insubordination but otherwise shuts the hell up. The other guards aren't batting an eyelash at the people around you hugging and holding hands, so why does she feel the need to catch an attitude because he felt your stomach?

It must be embarrassing for her, you muse with a small smile.

"Aye," N'Jadaka suddenly goes, distracting you from your gloating. "Why you walkin' like that? You good?"

"No," you reply, dragging out the word thoughtfully. "She has my hips all fucked up but I'll be okay."

"How so."

You shrug, averting your eyes because he's staring so deeply into them it's beginning to fluster you. You suppose he craves the conversation and the company; it's been 3 months after all. "I don't know. I just, hurt. My feet swell up sometimes, too. I almost didn't come today because I had to sit so long in the car."

He grunts, still staring you down, and you try to turn the conversation back to him. You notice that his dreads are longer, and they've sort of been re-twisted but not at the quality that you're sure he likes. Honestly, he looks kind of rough, in a tired sort of way. Other than that, he seems more gorgeous to you than he's ever been; you can't wait until he gets some sunlight. 

A minute or so passes and you open your mouth to ask why he's staring at you, to which he snorts as if it's obvious. 

"You bad as fuck, girl, damn. I forgot for a minute."

"Okay," you say, giggling. "Shut up, stupid."

He shakes his head slightly, making no secret how he's checking you out as his eyes travel from your glossy nude lips to your freshly manicured french ballerina nails. When his eyes land on your chest you have to laugh, because you're ready to complain. 

"I hate it," you groan, half-smiling. "They leak and I'm sick of it; and they're so weird-feeling."

"Stand back up."

Confused, you do just that, letting your flared out dress rest on your stomach rather than flatten it to showcase the shape for him this time. He's still looking at you with his head tilted, and when he comes to a decision his eyes flick back up to yours before he says, "I can get it from the back, then."

"Excuse me?"

"Or you can ride it  , but you never wanna do that. Lazy ass."

"Erik."

He starts chuckling, deep and hearty in his throat, before shaking his head at you. "I'm fuckin' wit you, relax."

You sit back down, admittedly missing his crude teasing of you and the sight of his dimples. There's so much to talk about, yet not enough, and you end up spending most of the time just holding his chained hand under the silver table. It seemed as if three months passed in no time at all, a flash, yet the idea of waiting two weeks for him to be released seems like an eternity. You miss his hands on  you, rough and calloused yet holding the capacity to be gentle when he feels like it; and the bickering. Of course you miss that.

A kid running around hits the back of your chair, and your yelp of surprise embarrasses you. She's tiny, probably around 4, and the look she gives you when you turn around makes your heart hurt.

"That's-you're, okay, sweetie," you say, laughing. She looks so bashful like you're going to put her on punishment. 

Another inmate, presumably her father, apologizes for her and nods to N'Jadaka, to which it's returned. You can't tell if N'Jadaka commands fear or respect in here, but either way there won't be any fights between him and the one leading the little girl back to the table. 

When you turn back to N'Jadaka, he's stone-faced and serious, a look that kills your smile for the second time. With your brows furrowed you ask, "What's wrong?"

Without skipping a beat, he replies, "I'm ready to get out this bitch."

"You're almost out," you offer, smiling again. "Then you can give me massages late at night when she's crip-walking in my uterus."

This piques his interest; his eyebrows jumping  as he asks, "She move a lot?"

"Sometimes. But only late at night usually; whenever I'm at the doctor or over somebody's house she doesn't wan-"

And just like the character you're sure she already is, she starts to show out, and you feel at first what you used to think was butterflies. But it happened once when you were staring at yourself in the mirror naked and it freaked you out. You ignore the guard and rush around the table to N'Jadaka's side, sitting on the surface a bit to gesture wildly to your stomach. 

Rather than lift those asinine chains, he just leans forward to put his face to your belly, and this moment of surprising tenderness is blocked from the rest of the room with  the angle you sit at. 

"You feel her?" you laugh, not knowing why you're  two seconds from leaking tears from your eyes. "She never moves this early, I guess she tryin' to say 'hi' to ya annoying ass."

He nods before sucking his teeth for an infinite time and glaring up at you for the dig. This gets you a nudge, and you hop off the table to save yourself from face-planting. 

He has the nerve to look sorry afterwards.

"I'm leaving," you joke, going back to your chair. "You don't love me."

It's completely a joke, although your back is starting to hurt again so you'd honestly better leave soon, but N'Jadaka's apparent isolation has him different than you expect. More willing to say things he'd previously keep to himself, you suppose.

Shifting in his chair you watch the way the chains around his wrist tangle around themselves before he opens his mouth to say, "Nah, I do."

"You do, what?"

He rolls his eyes. "And you lucky I do, too. You get on my nerves."

"I'm leaving!"

 

* * * *

 

The problem with leaving is just that, though, and by the time you're waddling back up to your apartment with a few groceries you're upset. The building N'Jadaka picked out for now is a modern high rise, a bunch of floors and much too bougie for your tastes but you've been getting used to it. 

The welcome mat you bought is still crooked as you turn the key into the top lock, and you ignore it for the second day in a row to fumble around for your key fob to unlock the second lock. The small black card causes the door to beep and you're in, greeted with the barking of King as he rushes you with a wagging tail. 

This place is  probably the biggest apartment you've seen; two large bathrooms and three bedrooms, the smallest of which you've been piling baby things into. You haven't thought much about the shower or names or anything yet, and the baby books sitting on the coffee table have been waiting to be re-acknowledged. 

Instead you walk past a couple of N'Jadaka's freaky masks, stationed in their glass cases in front of the laundry room and it has you afraid to come to the kitchen in the middle of the night.  Luckily for you, his friends took care of putting the rest of his museum souvenirs in a safe spot until he finds another house. It was funny watching them be so overly careful with it; none of them wanting to be the one to face the wrath of Killmonger for destroying his things

For now, the place is sort of a mishmash of the both of your things; his bed and sheets of your picking.  His kitchen appliances but your Keurig because you broke his. It's finally beginning to get home-y just like you like it,  and you tiredly make yourself comfortable by starting dinner.  Making meals for one is something you're used to, but something that you wish you didn't have to do because it feels so lonely. There's a chinese food takeout menu stuck to the freezer door and you consider it for a second instead, but ultimately the fear of food poisoning has you cutting vegetables with one of N'Jadaka's absurdly sharp kitchen knives.

The second you think of him, your cell rings, and when you notice a number you don't recognize you know it's him.

"Didn't I just see you?" you say, trying to be playful but it's not working. You're too tired and hurting too much; she's kicking the absolute shit out of you at the moment and you wish she'd cut it out. You're hungry too.

Ever so perceptive, he notices the strain in your voice and addresses it immediately. "What's wrong."

"Ugh," you huff, putting the knife down. "I'm going to the doctor tomorrow, I'm good."

"What you mean?" he asks impatiently. "What's wrong?"

"Last time it felt like this, Ramirez said she probably had her elbow in my ribs and if she keeps doing it i'm gonna fight her."

He chuckles at this before asking what you're doing. You tell him that you're making some sort of something, you don't know yet but it involves onions so far. It might be good, but it also might be better to throw them in the fridge and order a pizza. 

You're pulling the site up on your laptop when he tells you to eat "real food" and your only response is another groan. 

"Stop."

"You stop," you reply, adding vegetables to your custom pizza. "My BODY hurts, nigga, and you did this to me. And guess what the fuck else?"

He's silent, so you continue. 

"I keep having these sexy ass dreams and when I wake up I can't do shit about it. Somehow my vibrator disappeared during this move and I don't feel like buying another one! And guess. What. When you get here  you can't go as hard as i'm sure you want to and after she's born she might rip my shit apart and then i'll have to wait another month and a half for sex again. I'm sick of my boobs being all heavy- and I don't even know if I want to breastfeed because the baby books say it makes you all dry and I'm too YOUNG to not use lube by choice!  _OW!"_

Your nameless baby jabs you in the ribs again and going by your journal where you've been cataloging her movements, this is part of her normal schedule. It sucks that you're falling apart so close to N'Jadaka's release date, and you think that your sudden break has him restless because he just huffs into the phone. You want him to break your damn back but that just isn't possible; just like him pushing all the way in. 

" _Fuck. Meeeee,"_ you groan in the most non-sexual way. You're defeated, head on the back of the couch because you're tired of being assaulted by your unborn kid and tired of being pregnant by yourself. Mostly, you're tired of being pregnant. "Hurry up and get out."

An N'Jadaka that hasn't had any sexual relief in three months is an insatiable one, you guess, because what he says next has you infuriated. 

"I'm tearin' that ass up when I get out."

Somewhere, a record scratches and you just go, "Hm?" into the phone. 

"You heard me," he says flatly. "You know you heard me."

"No I didn't," you lie, eyes closed. "Sorry."

Chuckling, he tells you to keep playing with him if you want, and that has you wishing you weren't currently carrying a bowling ball in your body. But as you wait patiently for your pizza, you're treated to more of his filthy mouth because the thought of you is currently driving him crazy. You sure do hope he's alone in his cell, because if not you feel very bad for whomever has to listen to that deep voice of his purr out vulgarities. 

"-what you gon' wear for me when you can see ya feet again?"

"Shut up-"

You pause your laughing, too preoccupied with the blur of brown legs that just ran across your laptop. At first you think it's just dust but it darts toward you and you start screeching. You bang your foot against the table as you try and get away, causing the tv remote and several other things to clatter loudly to the floor. 

Usually you're calm around bugs and usually, you don't try to run from them but you haven't seen these bastards since you were a kid.

"Girl, what the fuck is wrong with you!?"

You're still screaming, trying to find the bugspray, but you manage to calm down enough to respond to the spooked man on the phone. "A  _centipede -_ THERE'S TWO!"

"Wh-"

"Can you break out of jail tonight?!" you ask, meaning every word. "Please come kill these for me-OH MY GOD!"

You can't find where they went anymore, both of them running off the edge of the table and disappearing into the brown rug underneath it. There's something about centipedes that shakes you down to your very core and you don't understand it. Maybe it's the legs or maybe it's their odd appearance; either way, you'd sooner move house than live here and see any more. 

Barefoot and pregnant, you sit up on the kitchen island with your eyes trained on the floor and no shame. 

"Baby," N'Jadaka shoots, sounding impatient. "I know goddamn well-"

One of the centipedes makes its presence known near the endtable you have sitting by the couch  and you just start spraying, hopeful that the stream can reach from where you're sitting. It doesn't, and you yelp, which irritates N'Jadaka even more.

"If you push her out on the kitchen floor because yo goofy ass is panickin' over a bug, you in trouble."

"You can't do shit to me," you start, but then you scream again because it shoots across the floor, and N'Jadaka is just laughing at you. 

You're near tears and hysterical, and he's laughing at you. It's why you hate men, honestly. 

* * *

 

Hate them so much, in fact, that you don't even call the weird blocked number that N'Jadaka uses when his release date comes. It's a nice, warm, Saturday too. The sun is nice and high and you're completely immersed in one of the many yearly barbecues your family throws. 

The slow jams are bumping, the kids are screaming, and your eyes are rolling from the catcalls of the friends of friends of cousins that are trying to get at you. 

Unfortunately, you can't wear your usual skimpy cookout couture; a white babydoll dress with flared-out sleeves is all you felt like putting on. On your feet are sandals and other than the jewelry peppering your person, it's all you have on. The idea of putting on your Docs had you wanting to die, and you've asked your friends 9 times  if your shoes match. 

They do, and you look good, but that's always the case so there's nothing new there.

You'd look better, you're sure, if you were allowed to sit down for longer than five minutes but there's always something to attend to. The cooler needs more ice, someone is letting Zeus and King eat stuff they shouldn't, some 'random nigga' is sitting on your auntie's car,  the list goes on. Hell, you haven't even gotten to eat anything yet, being forced to stand in the kitchen and help your mom season some chicken wings. 

And she's been over-the-moon excited about having a granddaughter, too. Calling you all the time to tell you about something cute she saw in the store for her 'little mama' and you're sure she's going to have her own mini-nursery in a second if she doesn't slow down. 

Because N'Jadaka has been gone, you've abstained from a baby shower plan and from looking at baby names, although you have an idea. You just hope that he'll react the way you want him to react. 

You step out of the side door of the house, handing your father the pan of raw chicken wings as he stands by the grill. The small trip from the kitchen to him has your hips on Disgusting, and he tells you to go take painkillers for it if it hurts so bad.

"I can't, dad," you huff, shuffling. "I'm gonna take a walk."

He says something else to you but you're already turning and walking away, too antsy to sit down and let your muscle pain get worse. Oddly enough, walking helps alleviate some of the pressure, but too much will have you just as broken. It's a weird schedule you had to adjust to,  but you think you've finally got it. 

Sighing happily at the warm breeze, you yank Kayla up by the ponytail as you pass her because she promised she'd go get you a milkshake but she's too busy laughing at some video on her phone. 

The camping chair she's in tips as she stumbles after you, and her exasperated 'damn, bitch' is ignored.

"Oop!" she suddenly goes, looking at you with wide eyes. "I'm sorry, babe, lemme go right now-"

"Nope," you go, shaking your head. "Nope nope nope. I'm pregnant and I'm hungry and I'm thirsty and y'all all disrespecting me today."

You don't know where Sydney is, but you see her parents sitting in a tent across the street in the field so she must be nearby. But for now, you can abuse Kayla because she hasn't lifted a finger to help you around the kitchen. You guess you're supposed to be making everybody plates and beverages. 

Hooking your arm with hers, you force her to help you take your relaxing trip around the block, and she pretends that it erases the fact that you've been on your feet all day. Waving and smiling at people that shout hellos at you, you try and enjoy the sunshine and vibe of the cookout without the stress of helping shit stay on track. 

"Hey," Kayla says after a while. "So when's Erik getting out?"

"Today," you shrug. "I guess."

"You guess?"

"He should be out already but I don't know.... Maybe he went home to sleep-"

At this, Kayla scoffs, as she's been doing every time your apartment is brought up. When her and Sydney first came over they had an attitude about it being so nice, mad that it was probably the biggest apartment they've ever seen, absolutely  _livid_ that there was a doorman and everything. 

The two of you keep walking , talking about random shit and reminiscing about old cookout memories from when you were kids. After a bit you have to stop because she's getting you emotional for some reason, and you have to remind yourself that y'all are young and not two old women thinking fondly of the past. Whenever you think about being old you get sad, because one day your heart will be so tired that you'll fear going to bed at night. Sometimes the thought scares you to death and sometimes it makes you pray you'll be able to share enough time with the ones you care about before it's too late.

You tell Kayla to stop talking because she has you too far into your feelings now.

Instead, you tell her that N'Jadaka's auntie still hasn't met with you yet and the lack of info about the proposed date has you anxious. She offers that maybe she's planning on popping up at your baby shower, and before you can speak your disbelief the rumble of a couple cars distracts you.

Two gorgeous old muscle cars with matte finishes pull around the corner and stop; parking behind all of the others lined up and down the street. For a second you're uneasy, as you always are when unfamiliar cars pop up amidst a bunch of familiar ones, so you turn around with Kayla in tow to return to the cookout. 

The black car is following you, though, and it keeps doing so all the way to your parents' house before pulling right behind yours and cutting the sidewalk off. Several people are staring at this rumbling monster with the bass so high it's shaking the ground, and you just stare unimpressed as several family members and friends talk shit. 

You assume it's one of your cousin Jo's irritating friends; the ones who always seem to be the loudest at family outings when no one invited them in the first place. Or maybe it's just someone you don't know; as the warm weathers cookouts are essentially a big block party and usually involves people you've never seen before in your life. 

One day you'd love to just have a  _family_ barbecue; maybe in the backyard of your parents' house, but you know this will only happen at the Reunion. That's when they rent out the park 

A couple of your aunties start their critiques of youth culture once the door opens, and aunt Essie is the one to gesture to you and ask you a question. 

"I bet you got a nice man to take care of the baby, don't you? We was over here talkin' about that Black Panther and  _lord_ all that black excellence is beautiful-"

She goes on and on, unprompted, and all you can do is stare at Kayla as she giggles into her hand at your irritation. It's even more irritating that these girls you don't know are pooling around and looking at the car like they just  _know_ somebody fine is about to come out.

They're right, of course, because N'Jadaka is the one to step out of the passenger's side and you don't give a shit about his boy in the driver's seat. He may be cute, he may not be, but all you know is that he has nothing on the one looking around for you. He has the nerve, the audacity, to be out here with his dreads braided back and his gorgeous arms on full display in the black tank he has on. The gold chain, the sunglasses, the tomfoolery is all too much and for a second you're offended.

You know good and damn well he didn't show up looking this good because now you gotta be prepared to fight one of these girls looking like they want to risk it all. 

Even Kayla shakes you,  going, "Damn, jail did a nigga good."

"Shut  _up,"_ you hiss, giggling. "Aren't you dating somebody?"

"And?" she goes. "He'll be alright. I caught him lookin' at the waitress' booty on our date the other night so.."

You call her annoying before recognizing the deja vu in seeing him from several yards away. This time you aren't on the porch, but his eyes are drawn to you all the same because he gestures for you to come over with a jerk of his head. 

Some girl with a bun and probably the most intricately laid baby hairs you've ever seen misinterprets the message and starts to walk forward but you have to politely stop her. She's cute, but you can't really feel bad about the pointed,  _'excuse me'_ that comes out of your mouth as you cut her off. You hear her suck her teeth as you do, and sometimes you wonder why you bother being nice to people when they test you not a second later.

You don't have the patience, but N'Jadaka grabs you by the arm before you can turn around and say something. 

"So you can't call nobody?" you say jokingly, wrapping your arms around his neck. The hug lifts you to your tiptoes for a second. 

"You ain't answer," he says, not missing a beat.

 "Oh yeah, my phone is in the house upstairs. Anyways, how are you, welcome back I still need you to kill those centipedes because I can't find them and I've been sleeping in the bathtub."

"Shit," he goes. "That's probably where they came from."

You gasp and he starts laughing, flashing those gold fangs and those dimples and he must think he's slick.

 _Fuck_ he looks good and it's only 1:40. 


	40. daddy's home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah 40 chapters! sad to say, i only have about a good 10-15 left for this one. If that! I don't want it to go on forever...

" _Wassup..._. Stop actin' lightskin."

The third straight minute of N'Jadaka just looking at you has you bashfully reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck again. You don't know how long you've been hugging him or how long his arms have been wrapped low around your waist but all you know is that he smells good and he looks good on this sunny April afternoon. 

You're willing to ignore the 'acting lightskin' comment if it's to let him keep rubbing his hands up and down your back in front of all these girls who are probably fuming. But then he pats your butt and you have to remind him you're in front of some family members. 

" _Stop,"_ you playfully whisper into his shoulder, but he only grabs you tighter, kissing you a couple times on the neck before trying to get you on the lips. "Aren't you hungry or something?"

He goes, "Hell yeah," before trying to grab you again but you're quick enough to dodge around the car and toward the front porch of your parents' house. The front door is unlocked, as always during  cookouts,  so you waltz right in with N'Jadaka hot on your heels. 

The inside of the house is filled with the smell of food cooking and it's so nostalgic that it makes you smile a little on your way to the kitchen. Your mother and a few cousins are inside, and they all stop and stare at you as you approach. 

Your mom speaks first, nodding to the man behind you. "Hello, Erik."

When you glance behind you to see how he'll react, you suppose you're fine with the way he nods and flashes that faux-amicable smile that he's so good at using. He's a great actor, all things considered, but he'll get used to your parents soon enough. Especially your father, and you tense a bit as he comes in from the back patio. 

You don't even give him the chance to say anything, cutting the tension in the air with, "Do you need me to go get anything?"

Shaking her head, your mom goes, "No, fool. Go sit down somewhere; walkin' around here like your granddad. Erik, you hungry?"

You peer up at him again to watch him say, "Nah, not really."

"Yes you are," she says. "Don't be all shy now, nigga, she about to pop out ya kid-"

"MA," you shout as your cousins burst out laughing. She shrugs at you and takes another sip of the wine cooler that definitely isn't her first. She doesn't really change much when she drinks but you've noticed years ago that she's more than willing to turn that filter off she keeps in her brain. 

This entire exchange, your father hasn't said much of anything, just collecting aluminum foil to cover the freshly grilled chicken that has your mouth watering. The pan will go with all the others; stationed in a line on the tables on the patio like it always is. People are starting to come over, too, because everyone on the block knows that your family (save for Rashida) has good ass food that's worth skipping over the others. 

You turn to N'Jadaka, tapping him on the chest with your fist. 

"Do you want a plate?"

"To go," he says.

"You leaving?"

" _We_ leavin'."

Just as you open your mouth to whine about having to leave your favorite thing about the warm weather, he shushes you with a flippant hand wave as he gazes down at you through his expensive shades. 

"You'll be back," he says. "We takin' a ride."

The two of you bicker back and forth quietly about this, ignoring the noise and chatter in the kitchen, but ultimately N'Jadaka wins in the end. He tells you not to get green juice on his macaroni and when you tell him he'll get whatever you put on the damn plate he scoffs at you before giving you an attitude-fueled peck on the lips. 

"I said what I said," he goes as he disappears down the hall toward the front door. You watch his back as he goes, so wide and broad and fine and you have to remind yourself that your glossy nude lipstick tastes gross so you shouldn't bite your lip.

If you could physically run, you'd be running after him, would have ran and jumped into his arms with your legs wrapped around him when he first got out of that car. Instead, you have to calm yourself down, ignoring the sly digs from your cousins as you fix a couple plates.

Rashida is teasing you as you scoop out some of Auntie Essie's mac-and-cheese, and you really want to tell her that she's soft-banned from the kitchen. Everyone made a collective pact that her ass isn't allowed to spice, boil, fry, bake or taste-test any food item at the cookouts. Just like your father when he isn't on the grill, she's liable to have the entire function hospitalized and you don't think she realizes it yet.

Her food always ends up pushed to the back of the fridge until it's time to get rid of the four-day old leftovers.

Grabbing the foil, you wrap the two plates you've made (with decent portions because you fully intend to come back and eat more), before waddling out the kitchen.

Rashida comes past you, scoffing with, "Girl, you ain't even big enough to be walking like that."

"My HIPS," you repeat for the millionth time today. "She got my alignment all fucked up."

And it's getting worse, too, that sharp ache shooting up your back again that lets you know it's time to lay down. You've passed that threshold of trying to walk it off and definitely passed the sit down time frame, so there's only one option left and one you can't take. 

Exhausted, you run into N'Jadaka in the driveway, leaning against the back of the black old-school Chevelle. He's talking to one of his friends whose name you forgot completely, but you recognize him as the one who N'Jadaka called a 'hoe.'

He takes the plate from you, and to be nice you offer the other to his friend. There's tons of food inside and you can eat later. Right now you just want to take a quick breather. And despite the fact that N'Jadaka said he wanted it to-go, he sure is digging in with the plastic fork you gave him like he hasn't eaten in months.

Although you suppose he hasn't, really.

You just watch him eat, wondering when he's going to pause to breathe or maybe offer you a bite. He doesn't.

"I thought we were going for a ride," you say, leaning against him. "My back huuuurts. Let's just sit here and talk shit."

Honestly, you have an attitude that he's paying more attention to the food than to you and you  remedy this by pushing him as hard as you can. He barely moves, only shifting half an inch or so before peering down at you through his sunglasses. 

He calls you spoiled before hip-checking you so you stumble sideways a couple steps. 

"You're an asshole!" you laugh, regaining your footing. "Push me one more time-"

"You pushed me first," he responds, wiping his mouth off with a napkin. "That was fire, you made that?"

"No," you go, watching him go dump the plate in one of the makeshift trashcans. "I made the salad and the healthy-ish pasta, stuff you don't like to eat."

He corrects your smart comment before telling his boy to move so he can get to your Jeep. You hand him the water you've been drinking out of and he damn near drains the entire thing before nodding at you in thanks. "Damn, you like my Bonnie, baby. Holdin' shit down."

You strike a pose to be funny since HE wants to be, flipping your hair over your shoulder , before getting ready to go grab your keys. No matter how bad your body is starting to hurt, you'll be damned if you go home just yet because he looks too damn good to be hidden from the sun today. 

Just in case you don't make it back in time, you make two or four plates for the road.

 

*  *  *  *

 

"Damn, you tearin' that shit up."

You're mid-bite of a chicken wing when this smart comment is uttered, and your only response is to stick your perfectly manicured middle finger up. 

The back of your Jeep is empty, empty enough for you to sit with the hatch open and devour your mother's cooking like your life depends on it. You  _were_ talking to your girls, as N'Jadaka decided to just go 'make a few runs' rather than drag you along so obviously hurting,  but his sudden return to the barbecue has all eyes on him.

Or rather, you, as he can't stop watching you eat.

Kayla whispers something in Sydney's ear and the two of them start giggling as you continue to blankly stare back with greasy fingers and a chicken bone that's been picked clean. 

You're sure this reunion isn't exactly what N'Jadaka had planned, as his desire to be outside for once and the desire to get you to Bed are probably clashing violently in his brain. You can tell by the way he keeps staring at you, eyes traveling up and down your legs and what little he can see of your butt when the wind blows. It sucks, but he can't exactly 'tear it up' when you can't even lay on your stomach.

Ramirez said it was fine for you to have sex, and she encouraged it in fact, as relief for some of your pains but you're too worried about N'Jadaka's size and intensity. He goes in, and while it's heaven during you fear it might attract a surprise visitor too early. That, or put you into shock. 

You're sure he knows this, but you think you'll be okay later with some nice,  _slow ,_ motion from behind. 

As you watch your friends throw some good-natured prison shade at N'Jadaka (to which he returns without missing a beat), you feel a pain in your lower abdomen. It shocks you, and you flinch involuntarily, before closing your eyes and letting out an annoyed sigh because you're sick to damn death of it all. 

The fake-ass contractions started plaguing you right as N'Jadaka went to jail, and you'd called Ramirez in a blind panic because you didn't want to have anything go wrong. You were close to a panic attack, alone at home in the middle of the night, and she'd laughed your fear away and explained what was probably happening in her soothing voice. She asked you so many questions like she was going through an imaginary checklist, before concluding they were your 'practice contractions' and are nothing to worry about. 

So like usual, despite your back pain, you set your food aside and prepare to stand up. Your Irritating Lovies all in front of you stop talking to gawk at you like something's about to go down; you must be making a hell of a face but you limp on past them with your cheeks puffed out.

You're going, " _Uuuuggggghh,"_ in the most annoyed way that you possibly can and you only make it to your parents' mailbox before you're stopped. 

N'Jadaka has a hold on your upper arm as he spins you around to face him, his eyebrows furrowed together as he observes you.

"_____, you good?"

"Mm-hm," you nod. "It'll go away in a minute I just have to move around."

"What?"

"These fake-ass contractions. Burton-Borton-Braden-"

Kayla cuts you off, sucking her teeth and saying, "Braxton Hicks, goofy."

She gets your next middle finger, and in fact you make it a double because you still want that damn milkshake she said she was going to get you.

All the girls lingering around in patches are all the way in their feelings as they observe the way N'Jadaka pulls you into a hug in the middle of the driveway.  You don't know what made you so petty but it's honestly helping your cramps subside just  _knowing_ that the fact that YOU are carrying his child have so many women mad. That makes you wonder about B and how she could possibly be taking this information. You haven't blocked her on Instagram because you  _want_ her to see all the cute selfies you post of your face and your dresses that show off your belly bump. 

You want her to be the maddest of them all. 

"You wanna go?" N'Jadaka suddenly asks, pulling away from you. 

"Don't you have some stuff to do?"

He shrugs. "I was gon' go to the Outreach Center but I can go tomorrow."

"You can go without me."

He just shakes his head. At first you think it's sweet but on the other hand you think he wants you to go with him and that itself opens a lot of questions. Truthfully the only time you've been down there is after your car accident and the idea of seeing what it's all about does make you excited. 

Still, you wonder why he's deciding to show you the place now. 

Right in the middle of your 'Missed You' kiss, your irritating dumb-dumb bigheaded ass best friends have to cut you off with a loud cheer and a synchronized, " _Daddy's home!!"_

You go to look at them in disgust and Sydney says, "Yes, bitch! Now we don't have to hear about her wet dreams in the group chat anymore! "

The fourth middle finger of the afternoon goes to her, and to add insult to injury you make her go grab you another to-go plate.

 

 

*  *   *   *   *

 

 

The sun is setting when the two of you finally roll on to the apartment, carrying your foil-wrapped plates and the milkshake N'Jadaka bought for you on the way in. As you bring the mail in, you watch him observe the way you've decorated and it sinks in that the two of you live together now. It was easy to forget having been alone in here the first three months but the idea starts to make you feel warm inside. 

You don't want to be 'corny' as he'd call it, but you have a sudden desire to  fall into his arms as he rudely scrutinizes that signed Captain America poster you slid onto the bookshelf. 

"N..."

He doesn't respond, too busy checking the patio door locks despite the fact any intruder would have to climb very very high to get to you.

"N," you repeat, setting everything down. "N...Daka...N...Jadaka. Erik. Killmonger. Bastard."

Surprisingly, he still hasn't paid you any attention so you cave and utter a defeated  _'Daddy'_ that gets him to turn around immediately.

"Wassup."

"Shut up," you spit, faux-disgusted as you approach the bedroom. "Nevermind. I'm taking a bath."

Ignoring him completely, you make your way into the 'Master Bathroom' that's tucked away into your bedroom. Whether or no he likes the way you've decorated in here is irrelevant as well. The warm color scheme was completely your doing, taking all of the creams and browns of your old bedroom and transferring it to this one was harder than you thought but you made it work. All of the black furniture is N'Jadaka's, but the more comforting aspects are all you. Decorating was a great distraction from your anxieties, and you're happy with how it all turned out.

Still, you're sure he'll be finding another house so you tried not to clutter the place up too much. It helps that most of his stuff got put in special storage until further notice.

The bathtub isn't as large as the one you were getting used to but you reach over to the faucet to turn it on, ready to relax in a fizzy bath bomb explosion. In fact, you drop two into the water, already peeling off your dress despite the fact that the tub isn't even a fourth of the way full. 

Lately, you've been coming to terms with your changing body and the way being pregnant makes you feel about wearing things other than sweats now that the weather is warming up. You don't think you really felt 'pregnant' until you looked in the mirror one day and saw your stomach.

That, and you couldn't fit into a single pair of your jeans anymore.

As you stare at yourself in the mirror, you turn to the side to observe the size of your belly, something that you've been doing nearly every day since you started really showing and it's become such a habit it can be put into your daily routine. 

"Heyyyy," you suddenly call out, not having the energy to reach behind you and unhook  your bra. Your shoulders are so stiff you don't think you can even do the bare minimum and reach up to pull the straps off. "Help me!"

For you to be pregnant, N'Jadaka sure does take his sweet ass time entering the bathroom, stopping in the doorway once he sees you half-naked. You don't know if he's staring at the way your bra is too small or how your stomach has a seam down the middle that looks as if it'll split any moment. Maybe it's how tired you look, or how pretty you think you looked today as well. 

He steps behind you, his calloused hands rubbing on your shoulders and at the dents your bra straps have made on them. You've gone up nearly two sizes and you can't be bothered buying new bras with how you've been feeling lately. When the clasp unsnaps, your sore breasts basically plop out of the cheap bra and the relief has you letting out a moan. 

Despite his cheekiness earlier he doesn't say anything more about your body and the fact that he hasn't seen you naked in three months, just going over to turn the faucet  off. The tub isn't as big as N'Jadaka's was, but you think it'd fit him if he wanted to join you. Even  _if_ this is more of a Relaxation Bath rather than a Get Clean one. 

Moving to sit on the edge of the tub, N'Jadaka takes the time to actually look at you this time; his elbows resting on his knees. 

"You ain't get that big," he says. "You about 6...7 months, right?"

You nod, opening the top drawer to pull out a pack of makeup remover wipes. The process of washing your face takes much longer than you ever want to but that's the price you pay for beating your face you suppose.

N'Jadaka's still staring at you through the mirror, and you glance back at him as you take your lashes off. "What?"

"You been eatin' how you s'posed to?"

You nod again.

"Don't lie," he says. "I know for a fact I ain't see that much of your jawline before you got pregnant. The only thing that stayed the same was that ass."

It's silent again, and you hate that you're on this subject because how can you explain your weird dietary habits? It's easy to  _say_ you'll eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner but your baby damn sure has a picky palette because half of the things you eat give you mean stomach aches. It's like she's sitting inside you with a knife and fork that she stabs you with whenever you don't eat what she wants.

For the longest all you could stomach were Pop Tarts and turkey sandwiches on rye bread with Havarti cheese and pickles ONLY, and you got sick of it really quick. 

Grease? No. Tomato skins? No. Spice? Never. Everything was a lottery and you're afraid the food you just indulged in is going to have you with the runs later on.

"Don't lecture me," you sigh tiredly, bending down to rinse your face. "I eat as much as I can when I'm hungry and the doctor says she's okay."

"Mm."

His eyes are still burning a hole in your back and you find yourself too self-conscious to turn around while he's there despite the fact that he's seen, felt, and tasted more of you than anyone else ever has. He notices this, chuckling as he rises to his feet to re-approach you. "What, you shy now?"

Without missing a beat you suddenly go, "We can't have sex."

"Whatchu mean?"

"It might hurt," you say timidly, still staring in the mirror. "Well... you go in too hard and I don't want you to make me go into labor."

It sounds silly, and even though Ramirez said you'd be fine as long as there was no overly-rough play, you've got this horrible paranoia. It's even worse because you want absolutely nothing more than to be bent over backwards by him as he lets out all that pent-up frustration from being in jail. The thought has you sending a silent prayer to the lord above.

"Oh we can, though."

He turns you around to face him, brushing your hair off your shoulders so he can get a good look at your body. And he stares at you longer than you anticipate, eyes lingering extra-long on your chest. You tilt your head in question, wondering when you're going to be able to get in that warm bath behind him. 

"Well," you say. "You can't go in like you want to."

"Obviously."

"And it'll have to be from the side because-"

"Mm-hm."

"And-"

He breaks out into a grin before cutting you off with a rough kiss that takes you aback. It's basically his way of telling you to shut the hell up but you don't complain, especially not with the way his tongue is dancing with yours. The kisses from earlier today don't count; they were polite little pecks that were considerate of the people around you despite the fact that you know he doesn't care who sees. If you weren't so insistent that he behave, he'd have grabbed a couple fat handfuls of your ass in front of everybody at that barbecue.  

But still, you need this bath and you know you smell like a charcoal grill no matter how much he wants to ignore it. 

"Wait," you say, breaking the kiss. "I stink, I know I do."

"No you don't," he goes impatiently, eyebrows knitting together. "Shit, baby, it's been 3 months I don't give a fuck what you smell like."

A lie, but you leave it alone. 

Instead you offer another reason not to; "My bath-"

N'Jadaka's already ushering you into the bedroom impatiently, one hand yanking his tank off. "Fuck that bath, girl."

You don't even have time to be flustered or shy or anything else because you're too busy laughing at the hasty way N'Jadaka is trying to remove his clothes. It's like his Horny Switch was flipped because he went from silent observation of your body to messy worship. His hot, wet kisses attack your neck and collarbone with no desire to go farther down because that would take too much time. 

And it's funny, you think, that he's only kissing your chest and nothing else; but you save the tease for later. You honestly don't know what's going on in your engorged breasts either. Best not to stray too close.

The backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed and down you go, back touching the recently washed sheets that are still rumpled from this morning. N'Jadaka stops to take his shades off finally, and you use the time to grab a scrunchie and pull your hair into a ponytail. In fact, you go ahead and grab your scarf from the nightstand and tie it around your head.

"For real," he says, glancing back at you with a snort.

"Yuh," you reply, proceeding to take the ponytail and braid it into a long plait that will keep it nice and wavy for the morning. (And out of your way).

By the time he's done primping in the mirror and climbing over you, you're back to staring at his body in awe as if you've never seen it. He's dripping in this energy that you've never seen out of him before; and maybe it's because you've been away for three months. 

It reminds you of when he went off-grid for that long, and you wanted to smack the shit out of him despite the fact that the break was great for your mental health. And this break too, now that you think about it, allowed you to do things at your own pace without the lingering threat of anything else hanging above you. 

And now that he's back, you can discuss other things.

But for now, you're too embarrassed to watch him yank your soaked panties off and toss them to the side. You want to be a little shy about the fact that you haven't gotten a wax in a bit because it hurt too much, but N'Jadaka doesn't address it at all. 

You can't even see what's going on down there unless you're in the mirror so shaving was also out of the question. And it's so funny that he seems the type to care about stupid fuckboy shit but it's surprising that he doesn't. Probably. To a point, at least, since he keeps fairly trimmed himself.

Another look lets you know that you can't see him anyway because of your House Guest and that has you giggling into your hands like it's the funniest thing you've ever seen.

You're laughing so hard you don't even react to that first kiss he lays on your dripping folds - aka your favorite part.

He hums, annoyed, and it makes your legs jerk back involuntarily.

"Fuck you laughin' for?"

"I can't see you!" you shriek, dying of laughter. 

"Shit, I can't see you either," he goes, before chuckling against you and effectively shutting you up. "This all I need to see, right here."

You tell him you want to see something too and just as he gets up with raised eyebrows because of your boldness, you get a sharp pain in your back that nearly has you about to close your legs. And that would kill you because the way his dick is just sitting pretty like that is too good to give up at this point. He doesn't seem to care that you're a little too broke up to do much and he rolls you on your side just like you ask because it's the only way this is going to happen. 

"Sorry," you say, sighing into the bed. Most of the pressure leaves the second you do but he seems ready to stop because he tosses a blanket over you.

Confused, you move it away from your face. You expect to see him pulling a pair of sweats on or going into the bathroom to finish himself off, but instead he's staring down at you with a look of pure concentration. 

You ask, "What are you doing?"

"I can't do this shit with yo stomach out."

"Excuse me?!"

He sucks his teeth, seeing how high he can hitch your left leg up before it hurts you. "It's like she lookin' at me. I ain't never fucked pussy this pregnant before-"

"W-"

You honestly don't know what to say, so you say absolutely nothing as he stands in front of you and situates the blanket so your stomach is completely hidden from view.  You  _would_ say you wish you would've given birth already just so you can actually get some without resorting to silliness but there's no way you'll be ready for his otherworldly stroke game afterwards. It might take a month before you can handle him again.

He asks if you're ready, funny because he never does, but you gasp all the same when he presses nothing but the tip against your entrance. He's moving so slow, so carefully, because you think he's more paranoid than you are but the mutual sexual frustration can't continue to fester like this. You'd go crazy.

And crazy you think you're going anyway, because you'd forgotten how good he feels both inside and outside of you. His rough hands are heaven on your touch-starved skin, and the groans coming from deep in his throat are sending you. Your only regret is the awkward position; you can't really get close enough for this to be as intimate as you'd like. Instead of 'Missed You' sex it's more like a hookup in the back of an old Jeep in a bar parking lot. 

He's only pushing about halfway in, too, and you can see it in his eyes how irritating it is for him so you reach out to graze his forearm with your nails. "Hey."

You only get a grunt in response; he's concentrating apparently.

You have your face in a pillow, because he's really getting to you with this slow rocking rhythm and the face you're making is embarrassing. Still, you gather the strength to tell him to stop being a bitch and go all the way in like he's missed you. At this point you've pushed your paranoia away to the back of your head, requesting that he fuck you like you're on a conjugal visit and not like you're already in traction. 

"Still talkin' shit," he huffs, doing just what you said. "Okay."

"Can't do shit about it, either," you say back, each word being interrupted by his hips smacking into yours. His thrusts are nowhere near the intensity they could be but it's perfect; it's like he's actually realizing the two of you aren't the same size for once. 

It's heaven, and you hope you aren't too loud for him because he's hardly making a sound and this pregnancy has all of your nerve endings on fire. Everything is amplified,  more intense, and you're almost...

"Get up."

There. 

With a roll of your eyes and an annoyed whine you let him pull you up to a sitting position, pretending not to appreciate his kisses because you know he just did that shit on purpose. Every time he tells you to 'get up' during, it means he wants to hit it from the back and normally you'd be all for it but you don't know how long you can stay on your hands and knees. 

The two of you are about to conduct an endurance experiment in this bed, but you suppose what you missed the most about N'Jadaka is that he's irritating as hell. 

"Baby-"

"OKAY, fuck! I'm moving as fast as I can!"

 


	41. a brief meet with the queen mother

 

"I knooooww you're not tryin' to do this again," is what you sleepily mutter to yourself at entirely too early in the damn morning, body too tired to entertain N'Jadaka's wandering hands going up your nightgown. 

He proved to be too greedy the night before, taking you until you couldn't take it anymore, and even then he still went to take a shower that lasted a lot longer than they usually do. You're sorry that you can't really provide too much pleasure for him because you can't  _take_ too much without feeling like dying but you're going to have to make him understand that the person growing inside you is draining you of everything. 

As 'bad' as you are, he's going to have to be satisfied with slow strokes from the back or nothing at all for a little bit. 

He reaches over you to grab his phone off the nightstand, saying something you don't understand as he does so, and all it does is make you clench your legs together. You're sore, very very sore, and the idea of him going anywhere near your clit  has you ready to fight. You've never cum so many times in one night but it didn't feel like a sexy accomplishment. At all. It's like he couldn't stop touching you, coming in for more again and again with rough fingers whenever you thought you were done. Before the bath, after the bath, after his shower and while you were trying to watch Netflix it's like he physically couldn't stop playing with you.

"She's on strike," you mumble, snuggling deeper under the comforter.  Your 'appointment' with Ramirez today can wait; you haven't slept this good in a while.

"Mm-mm," he goes. "Get up. You said you got an appointment."

Shaking your head against the pillow, you've already made up your mind. "I'm cancelling."

"Get up."

"I'm cancelling," you repeat, struggling to hold the comforter as he tries to take it off you. "It wasn't really an appointment... I just wanna go over some stuff since I'm so late with everything."

He doesn't say anything, so you roll over onto your back painfully to look him in the eyes. You regret it, because he looks good as hell but you need to stay on topic. "I wanted to wait on you to do shit like tour the hospital and everything; I already picked one by the way. I still don't know about midwives, but I think I'll be okay without one. I mean..they're just support, right? Not that you probably care but I've decided to divide breastfeeding with formula because I don't want my titties to look like deflated balloons at the end of it.Um...still haven't planned a baby shower and I think Sydney and Kayla are trying to throw one but I do have a registry and I do have a theme so they'd better make it work."

"And what's that," he 'asks,' reaching over to rub your stomach. He's kind of laughing, probably at the breastfeeding comment.

"Bees!" you say excitedly. He just rolls his eyes. "Honeybees. Flowers. Yellow...no?"

"Why not."

It sucks that his previous house got attacked because it would've been the perfect place to hold a shower, so now you have to find a venue to do so. You could always do it at your parents' house (the backyard is more than big enough), but you'd have to hurry and do it before they leave on their cruise in a couple weeks. Truthfully, thinking about it all gives you anxiety so you pray that your friends can successfully plan and get everything together. You were supposed to have it all thought out months ago, so the invitations would've already been sent out but it looks like you're going to have to break out the old Facebook Invite.

As for N'Jadaka, you wonder if he'll be willing to invite any of his friends.

"You have anybody you want to come?" you ask, leaning up just enough to put your heating pad under you. "It'd be weird if it was just you, right?"

"It is just me," he goes, and you feel bad. 

"It's not just you, anymore. Tell your boys I want gifts and tell your royal cousins that I also want gifts."

At this he snorts before the bed dips as he gets out of it. You watch him pad silently over to the bathroom with an absolutely exhausted look on his face; prison must not be the easiest place to relax. Or do much of anything else, as he made sure to let you know that any form of  _self-love_ was a no-go with the thin walls and the easy way sound carried from cell to cell. Sounds like he heard a lot of shit he didn't want to and you're glad he didn't see you snicker as he told you. 

"Hey," you call out, starting to laugh again at the thought. "Can you take King out to use the bathroom, please? There's a little dog park in the back it's really cool-oh! Make sure you hold him if that old lady is out there with her yappy ass Pomeranian. He almost killed me trying to get to that dog and I dont know if he wanted to play or not, so-"

"Gotchu," he interrupts, passing you and entering the hallway with a whistle for King. You hear the clacking of his nails on the floor not long afterwards. 

The door closes and you're alone. Alone with thoughts of the impending birth of your baby and the fact that she still doesn't have a name. You have a list scribbled hastily on a sticky note in your planner, but you don't think they really fit yet. There's another possibility , a difficult one, and it involves you venturing to that uncertain place that is N'Jadaka's past. His parents; his mother specifically, and what her name was. You don't want to pry and research it yourself, but you don't know if he'll tell you flat out. 

T'Challa doesn't even know what became of her, so this conversation has to be started by you. 

Maybe you should start it during a moment of post-sex haze.  _If_ you can manage to have a round two without your body wanting to fall apart.

"This is awful," you say aloud to yourself. "What am I gonna name you..."

It's all you think about as you get ready all morning, wondering when that epiphany is going to hit you and that it needs to hurry up because you'll be damned if it's time to sign the birth certificate and Baby Girl still doesn't have a name.

Your mom did that with you and her excuse was,  _'hell, that labor pain had me forgetting my own damn name let alone what we decided yours was gon' be.'_

 

*  *  *  *

 

The issue is still on your mind in the line at the coffee shop you made N'Jadaka stop at, and you make several people uncomfortable when you let out an annoyed groan out of nowhere. You suppose that there's nothing else to do but to talk to N'Jadaka about it, because at this point the two of you are in this for the long run now. You're sure he'll offer some kind of input, aside from his text urging you to hurry up right as the barista slides you your decaf latte.

Truthfully, you're nervous, because the two of you are on your way to the Outreach Center and the idea of who may be waiting to see you has you wanting to run. 

He still won't tell you when you slide back into the car.

"All that for a cup of coffee?" he scoffs, pulling into traffic like a maniac. "Could've made that shit at home; or did ask me to buy that big ass coffee machine for nothin'?"

"Shut up," you say in between sips. "And you haven't kissed me today, either, don't think I didn't notice."

Just as he moves in to do just that you spitefully give him your cheek instead, refusing to let him mess up your lip gloss.  You're a bit touch-starved all things considered but so far you haven't been able to just..be. His libido took over last night and your body decided it'd had enough, which created this unfulfilling mess that you can't stop thinking about. 

N'Jadaka proves to be on the same wavelength because he brings it up a few minutes later; sitting relaxed with one arm on the steering wheel. He looks very Summer Fine again today, his dreads still braided back and expensive sunglasses on to block out the blaring early afternoon sun. He's wearing a simple white tee shirt, relaxed fit with that ring around his neck that you haven't seen in a while.

He must've taken it with him to jail because you don't remember seeing it while his boys helped you move (although a few of them got really nervous thinking it was lost).  You reach over to touch the chain it's attached to silently as he makes an asshole remark about how wet you were last night.

Or rather, that you weren't like you used to. 

"Excuse me," you mutter, letting the chain go. "I already  _told_ you I was gonna be a little off. I'm PREGNANT."

"I'm aware."

"We can go get some lube if you want," you add, completely serious. "I need to replace my vibrator, anyways."

He raises an eyebrow, glancing over at you for a second before snorting. "The hell you need that for? I'm here now."

You train your eyes to the traffic in front of you, smiling as you say, "Yeah but sometimes it's Lady's Night. And  _sometimes..._ like last night, my back and hips and everything else is all fucked up and I need something that won't get all rough and shit even though i'm dying."

"Mm."

"You're giving me a fullbody massage tonight."

When you glance over at him again he's clenching the steering wheel pretty hard, eyebrows furrowed together and his other hand rubbing idly at his beard and at this you nudge him. 

He only huffs, and at this you think you get it; this fool is sexually frustrated and was absolutely not satisfied with what he got last night. You want to be offended, but it's funny at the same time because neither did you. Sure, you had about 6 orgasms but after the first one they all came so quickly that they barely felt like much and you just ended up irritated. Especially since he seemed to be doing more out of boredom than actual desire.

A whole mess.

It sucks that he got home from his 'away-trip' to be presented with you; near the end of your second trimester and so sore and achey. There's the added fact that you have an attitude every other hour but either way you just can't wait to deliver this rough-housing child.

You hope that bearing the child of N'Jadaka "Killmonger" Stevens isn't going to tear your body into a new dimension. 

But more importantly, you hope that paranoia thought in the back of your mind about an unsatisfied man straying is just that. You don't think he'd do that to you, not at this point, but on the other hand you can't even begin to fathom what he could be capable of should he simply want to. Maybe it's your pregnancy, fucking up your emotions and thoughts because you're taking a night of lackluster sex a lot harder than you should.

"I'll try and be better tonight," you add, just to cut through the silence. "I guess. Am I givin' you blue balls or something? Why do you look so mean?"  

He hums to himself again before slowing down to park near a basketball court where kids are playing a pretty intense game in the sun. Just as he begins rolling the driver's window down, he glances at you to say, "I'll be back."

"Hey-"

"Chill out," he goes. 

Just as you go to respond to this with the attitude he just gave you, a few people approach the car. A few of the kids have run over to greet 'Erik' with excited smiles and inquiries about where he's been for the past few months. They look like they're in middle school, a few others appearing high school age, and a few more on the court raise hands in greeting as N'Jadaka shouts a 'wassup' through the fence. 

It's so odd to see him dapping up and joking around with all these teens and younger kids, looking at him like he's their idol, and you have to wonder how long he's been involved with this part of the community like this. You've honestly never been around this part of town because you'd had no cause to; the Outreach Center and the neighborhood it sits in just seemed like a distant place that always managed to get pushed to the back of your mind.

You find yourself smiling, until a voice comes from the open window.

"Dammmmn, can I have ya number, ma?"

"Aye," calls N'Jadaka, turning to stare at the boy leaning into the car window. "Watch ya mouth, lil nigga."

To this the boy starts snickering before giving you a cheesy 'call me' hand gesture and jogging back to the court. You just have to laugh and shake your head. 

A bit of people-watching doesn't seem so bad, though, so you slowly climb out of the car with a smile as the sun hits your skin. Your phone vibrates but you ignore it to waddle over to the front of the car and lean against it. The noise and the laughter and the sounds of Almost-Summer have you relaxed enough to forget the anxiety of N'Jadaka not telling you why you  _have_ to go to the Outreach Center too.

You're so caught up in watching him jokingly "fight" the kid who hit on you that you don't notice someone bopping up toward you with headphones on.

"Damn, wait till I tell Keith what happened to his 'future wifey.'"

"What?" you go, head snapping around to see who's approaching you. It's a voice you haven't heard in a  _fat_ minute. "Oh. Hey, Malcolm."

He nods a greeting to you before leaning against the telephone pole next to you, looking just as he did when you saw him last at Cafe 85c. He pulls his headphones down  to his neck before shoving his hands in the pockets of his ripped jeans. You assume his father still has that partnership with the Outreach Center for him to be over here, so you start a conversation about that rather than entertain the thought of Keith.

You're amazed he hasn't found your Instagram yet.

Malcolm has, though, swerving the convo in its direction with a teasing laugh. 

"Did you know you were on theshaderoom again?" he asks.

"Noooo," you groan, attributing it to the sudden influx of followers you'd gotten recently. That, and the shitty comments you've been getting from bitter IG baddies with nothing else better to do. You've never followed or blocked B, but her petty ass still has  _you_ blocked, and every now and again Sydney tells you when she starts suspiciously getting in her feelings about 'Erik.' It's always when you get random insults from her stans. 

You ask Malcolm what they said about you, to which he whips out his phone and shows you the post. It's a screenshot from your own account, a mirror picture you took one day before your girls treated you to breakfast. Not to toot your own horn but you  _know_ you looked bad as hell; makeup, hair, everything with your belly and all in that black off-the-shoulder romper. N'Jadaka was in jail, then, so he missed out on the rare time you didn't feel like shit  because of Baby Girl tap-dancing in your insides.

She starts moving as you read the caption, and you're glad because she's been sitting on the left side all morning. That lopsided-bump wasn't cute. 

"Wow," you say, scrolling through. " _'Killmonger's Mystery Honey now sporting a baby bump;'_ how interesting. "

Malcolm snickers as you hand him the phone back. "You got those girls pressed in that comment section."

You flutter your eyelashes jokingly with a smile, and it's ironic that this is the moment N'Jadaka decides to look over at you from the fence. The look that he gives you makes you roll your eyes because you'd never in a million years even look at Malcolm in that way. He's a couple years younger than you but much like Keith and the other guys from the old neighborhood, you treated them more like irritating brothers rather than anything else.

Idly kicking a rock in front of you, you pretend not to notice your quickly approaching baby-daddy until he comes to a stop in front of Malcolm.

You just give him a look, apologizing in advance, but the smirk hasn't left your lips. 

"Wassup," Malcolm says, nonchalantly. For some reason you burst out laughing at the casual look on his face, turning to N'Jadaka to hit him on the arm as an order to 'behave.'

He and Malcolm share a few more seconds of a held gaze before he turns to you to tell you you're leaving. You watch him grab your purse out of the car in question, and when he hands it to you you ask him with your facial expressions who told him you wanted to walk anywhere. Malcolm daps him up with the goodbye of 'be careful out there, man.'

N'Jadaka only nods.

"Couple blocks," he goes afterward, jerking his head at you. It's his Code for 'follow me.' "You need the exercise."

"Yeah right," you go, waving to Malcolm as you fall into step next to him. "You just tryin' to show me off to these grown men around here."

At this he chuckles, before shaking his head at you. His gaze still appears to be trained on all of the people hanging around, some shouting hellos others doing nothing but nodding. But some, just stare, and you don't like that.

It reminds you of the conversation N'Jadaka had with you that one night where he all but confessed his love for you and the worry he had about you being out alone now that it's known who you're with. He said he has enemies, and you don't doubt it because you've seen one firsthand, but the idea that there could be more just out here worries you. They could be the ones that say hello for all you know, while the ones that just stare could be the ones that ride for him. It's impossible to tell, and that scares the shit out of you.

You outright tell him what's on your mind, saying, "I don't like how some of them are looking at you."

"Yeah you should be used to that by now," he says. "I told you I got enemies out here; hatin' ass niggas mad for no reason. That's why you need to be careful out here, matter fact, don't even come out this way without me."

"But-"

"Without ME. Last time I tried to let T bring you out here you ended up folded the hell up. Me."

He punctuates the last 'me' with a finger to his chest as if you couldn't understand otherwise, but it still doesn't change the fact that your mind is running and you're anxious. You'd have rather he drove the rest of the way to the Outreach Center because now you just feel like a target. A target with a round belly and a limp in your step on account of your sore hips. 

You have a yoga class in a few hours so you hope this can be wrapped up pretty soon. 

 

 

*   *   *    *

 

"You're gonna make me go into labor!"

"Shut up and go in there so we can leave, shit."

"Don't tell me to shut up-"

N'Jadaka nudges you forward so you take two clumsy steps toward the conference room of one of the upper level floors, populated by offices and a nice ass lunchroom. You can smell the food  but it's not enough to distract you from the fact that N'Jadaka the asshole brought you all the way down here to meet his aunt, T'Challa's mother without telling you. He could've at least given you time to mentally prepare, but the idea of you being nervous to meet someone so important eludes him.

T'Challa isn't in, off handling business somewhere before having to go back to Wakanda and Shuri greeted you briefly on the third floor on her way to the basement. 

In other words, the two of you are alone and you're scared shitless. He says he'll be in there too but you don't care, all you can feel is nervous as you make your way over. Your Nikes squeak against the clean floor as you move, but you hear only your heartbeat once you peek into the glass doors and see her.

You don't expect her to be alone, staring right at you like she's been waiting long with this look that makes you think you're about to get in trouble. Immediately you have flashbacks to getting in trouble as a kid; specifically when you got caught trying to get a doughnut out of that loud ass plastic and the way your mother called your name nearly sent you to the hospital. 

She stands as you move to sit, not feeling familiar enough to do anything but keep your distance and stare at the regality emanating from her. She isn't wearing anything flashy or special, a black blouse and slacks with a matching headscarf, but your eyes are drawn right to the huge doorknockers on her ears. They're nice.

N'Jadaka says hello in a teasing sort of voice that makes you wonder if his 'hey auntie' is an inside joke of some kind, and the way the Queen Mother admonishes him in Xhosa confirms it. He only starts laughing before gesturing to you with those dimples on full display.

Bastard.

"____," he goes, reaching over to nudge you. "You gon' speak?"

"Hi," is all you say, feeling very hot because you suppose this is the closest you'll actually get to 'meeting the parents.' "I'm _____."

"So I've heard," she says, amused. "I'm sorry I couldn't meet you sooner...it looks like you've been busy?"

At this she gestures to your stomach and for some reason you're embarrassed. It's true that T'Challa mentioned ages ago that she'd like to meet you, no doubt to make sure you're trustworthy considering the volatile nature of who you're dating and it made sense. N'Jadaka had nearly destroyed the infrastructure of Wakanda so it's only natural, despite his mellowing out, to see what company he keeps. 

You're so caught up in your thoughts that you barely register her ordering N'Jadaka to go get you something to drink, and you manage to catch him sucking his teeth like he has an attitude about it. He still does it, though, and that's funny. 

She asks you a question and you only hear the end of it.

"M'am?" you say in question, fearing if you don't address her as such you'll get popped for some reason. You think your family gave you PTSD.

"When are you due?"

"End of the summer," you say. "July 2nd, but I doubt I'll make it that long."

She asks if you're carrying N'Jadaka's child somewhat carefully, and when you nod, she only hums. You want to ask what that means, but she regards you a little seriously as she confesses to you why she really wanted to meet you and why it's so important that she does. You're not surprised, but you listen to her all the same , answering each question she asks without any hesitations (although the sly one she asks about your 'future' with her nephew makes you stutter a bit).

Minute by minute your anxiety leaves you, and by the time N'Jadaka returns with a couple bottles of water she's grilling you about your baby. You still don't think you've come to terms yet with the fact that  you're going to be a 'mother.' It's not a word you thought you'd use to describe yourself; at least not for a while. People always kind of give you a look if they find out your pregnancy was an accident, regarding you curiously when you give your reasoning for wanting to go through with it. Sure, you don't have a super spiritual inspirational reason for it all and it's rather simple, really;  you just felt like it.

"I'll be back," N'Jadaka suddenly says, tapping you on the shoulder. "Goin' to get the car."

"Okay," you nod, watching him go. "Be careful."

 When you turn back around, she's giving you this wry little look. 

You're choosing to ignore it, instead letting out a laugh that tells her not to even bother with the comment she's about to let loose. It's written all over her face; that ' _you really really care about him don't you'_ look.

After a bit she rises from one of the comfortable office chairs circling the conference table and you do the same, feeling a pang in your lower back that tells you it's time to walk around for a bit. You've been sitting too long, and she chuckles at the way you waddle over to her with sympathy in her eyes. 

"I don't miss that," she says, shaking her head at you. "The feeling of holding them in your hands makes it all worth it, though."

"I'm sure. I hope."

She tells you that she has to go, and that she isn't sure she'll be able to make it to your baby shower but she'll be sending regards all the same. The fact that she's even speaking to you is enough of a gift, but the upbeat conversation suddenly switches topics as she takes your hand. Her voice lowers as she says to you, "Keep an eye on him, okay?"

At first you're confused, thinking that maybe she's afraid of him turning all super villain again.

"You're a nice girl, and I think we can all see what effect you're having on him....but watch him for us. Keep him out of trouble."

"Okay."

"We're not going to count that 3 month 'away trip'," she adds, raising her eyebrows at you. "But to tell you the truth I'm shocked he managed to behave himself for that long."

You were surprised too, but you'd figured at the end of the day he wanted to see you more than he wanted to knock some heads around for disrespecting him, and that's lovely. Just like the bracelets on her wrists that knock together loudly as she takes your other hand. Her grip is firm and her hands soft and you know for a fact that ashiness doesn't run in this family. 

There hasn't been a single moment where you've caught N'Jadaka with even an inch of dry skin. It's not fair. 

 "He'd burn cities to the ground for you, kill whomever he pleases if it so pleases you and that's exactly why you need to keep him out of trouble. And-"

You wonder if she's going to voice your own worry you've been having lately.

"-Watch those around him," she says, eyebrows furrowed. "Always make it a habit, I tell my children the same. And watch yourself, "

A couple of women in black dresses enter the room then, probably Dora, nodding to the Queen Mother and passing on a silent message. It seems like it's time for her to go, and you're bummed out that the meeting couldn't be longer. She seemed to have scoped you out pretty well, although you're sure the testimonies of her kids was enough to vouch for you. That, and N'Jadaka's apparent uncharacteristic loyalty.

Clearly, you're the longest relationship he's had (post-revenge anyway), and they seemed ready to scope you out by the second month. 

It doesn't help that his previous "relationship" served as a means to an end. 

From what you've heard you don't think anyone could pay you to come near the man while he was in that dark place in his mind. When he was all revenge crazy and furious, burning governments to the ground and adding scars to his body to mark the dead you'd take 98 Devons rather than attempt to give him the time of day. 

You don't like to think about Dark N'Jadaka. Killmonger.

But you wonder if you'll have to call on him one of these days, because that uneasy feeling won't leave you. But when is it an actual gut feeling and not a product of your overactive paranoia?

 

 

 

 

 


	42. paramedic

 

_"-if that nigga want me dead, I can't let that nigga breath-"  
_

You startle awake from your nap, N'Jadaka's loud pre-gaming cutting off your much needed post-yoga rest. The song is absolutely rattling the walls of the apartment and you can't imagine how it sounds to the neighbors. 

A quick glance to your cell phone tells you that it's almost 8, you've been asleep for about 4 hours which is probably the longest nap you've been able to take the past few months. So now you have an attitude, mad that his music woke you up and mad that you're sore and mad that you're hungry too. In fact, you're too mad to pet King whose been chilling by the window in hiding from the pounding bass going on in the living room.

God, you miss N'Jadaka's dope house. 

This apartment is large and definitely more accommodating than your previous, but sometimes you're going to run into problems. Like...

He runs into you just as you pass the bedroom doorway, brushing past with a hand on your side as he mutters a "Watch out."

"Where are you going?" you shoot, following him into the bathroom. 

"Out," he says, spraying some cologne that has you scooting a bit closer to where he stands. Hell, it has you wrapping your arms around his chest and pressing your face into his back. Your stomach is making it hard for you to get that close but you're close enough to feel that heat radiating off him. Your favorite. 

"Where's 'out'," you say.

"It's out, nigga," he says back.

You pause before pulling away from him as he snickers at you. Just because he looks all good and extra buff with his long sleeved black shirt and shit doesn't mean he can sly talk his way out of this house without telling you where he's going specifically (or talk to you like you're one of his boys). He can go and live his life and have fun not being cooped up all night after being locked up for 3 months but he 's got you fucked up if he isn't giving you his location. 

He turns toward you, his dreads a little wavy from being braided back before, and grins. It's devilish like always, and you frown at being suddenly hit with it without warning. You feel like he's about to prank you or something. 

He stays like that for a second before biting his lip and tapping your arm roughly with one hand. "What you so scared for?"

"I'm not scared, I'm worried."

He's silent, still looking at you like he's trying to figure you out. It's something you find he always does when you act like a normal person with normal feelings toward him. Like  _you're_ the weird one for caring whether or not he's okay. 

Still, that feeling won't leave you and while you know he can handle his own you can't help but try and express this in a way that he won't immediately dismiss. Not only is your pregnant mind worried about him being careful out here but also  that pettier side of you keeps thinking about chicks in the club getting too close to him. You aren't stupid, you know they linger around him and his boys like flies because you've seen pictures and videos of their bougie little exclusive sections. It's like a spectacle, all eyes on them as they sit there and do literally fucking nothing while girls dance and hold bottles and all this other performative shit that makes you laugh.

It's why you kind of hate clubs. 

After a bit, you flat out say it. 

"I don't want you to go."

"So?"

" _So,"_ you start, following him down the hall and out to the living room. "Stay in with me and keep me company! I haven't seen you in three months."

"And I ain't seen  _outside_  in three months," he shoots back over the music. You're surprised he even heard you. "Call ya girls or somethin', they can keep you company."

You pout, folding your arms as he searches around the place for something. Lately Sydney and Kayla have been getting on your nerves (like everyone) because every time you sneeze, cough, and/or stay in the bathroom too long they're ready to call the ambulance. They're so jumpy about you going into labor early that they're liable to actually  _make_ you so you've exiled them to outings and outings only. 

Tomorrow you're running some errands so they may get a call to come with. Maybe.

There's only really one person you want to be up under and he's trying to go sit in a smoggy, congested club downtown to smoke cigars and drink when you can't do any of it.

Ontop of that, you have to cook for yourself because there is nary a pot, pan, or delicious smell coming from the kitchen.

The song has restarted for the third time, no doubt feeding N'Jadaka's ego because someone out there made a whole song dedicated to his image. The beat's nice but it's just so aggressive you don't feel like you could listen to it with other people around. 

Its subject is all ready to go out the door now, and you childishly turn away as he tries to kiss you before remarking that if he comes home at 'bitch in the morning' he'd better not wake you up. 

 

*  *  *  *

 

Episode 394895 of Grey's Anatomy ends right as your own snoring wakes you up, and you expect to hear a disgruntled 'shut up' coming from behind you but you don't. You aren't even in bed, just on the living room couch with nothing but  a bowl of room temperature strawberries and the gorgeous view of downtown through the living room windows. 

Silently, you peel yourself off the couch, your blanket falling to the floor as you move to shut the curtains and dump the bowl. It's almost eerily silent now that the pounding bass of N'Jadaka's speakers isn't rattling the walls so you waste no time in cutting the tv off to retreat to the bedroom. You'd think that you would be used to being alone in the middle of the night, as you've been your entire adult life pretty much so far, but one of the occupational hazards of dating N'Jadaka is bouts of crippling paranoia in opportune ways.

You don't like this, and have half a mind to get in the car and drive to one of your friends' houses to sleep. 

But it's 3 in the morning, and they probably won't even hear your phone calls (because there is no way in hell you're going to get out of the car and stand on their porches to knock).

After closing the bedroom door and being tempted to lock it, you turn the tv on for company and wrap yourself in the sheets, thumb already unlocking your cell to make this call. 

N'Jadaka's name in your contacts is just a cat emoji, mostly because you thought it'd be funnier than the Jaguar, and you get an attitude at the lack of it on your screen. No missed call, no text, no voicemail, nothing.

You hate to be that person but he should've text by now. 

The phone rings so many times you lose count, getting ready to hang up and go to sleep before it finally clicks. 

"Wassup."

"Where are you?" you ask, knowing he's about to give you his irritating ass answer. "Are you okay?"

There's a pause on the other end before he chuckles, but you're too busy trying to figure out why you only hear chatter coming from the other end instead of club music.

"I'm good," he says. "You good?"

"I-"

"What she say to you? Why you so damn scary lately?"

"I'm not. Just come back! Now!"

He scoffs, pausing to do what you don't know, but then you hear the sharp exhale and it's obvious he has a blunt in one hand. God, you wish you were able to smoke it with him; or rather beg him to let you have some because he's an asshole that's stingy with his weed.

You try another question, sighing into the phone as you ask it; "When are you coming back?"

He exhales and you hear a woman's voice, muffled yet feminine all the same. Whoever is talking he doesn't respond to until she speaks again and he says something you can't hear too clearly. 

Therapy really got you to put a handle on the insecure and always looking for validation from a man problem, but in your current state of mind you have to bite your tongue to put a handle on it before you start screaming. It's probably that one spacey girl that answered his phone the last time you called wondering where he was, and not a second later N'Jadaka reads your mind.

"Relax," he goes. "Damian still fuckin' with her airheaded ass."

"How'd you even know I was going to say anything? And don't be an ass."

"Ya breathin' changed," he says casually, taking another pull. "You don't think I know you by now, lil bit?"

Ah, the nickname, your favorite that you feel he so rarely calls you anymore. Lately he's taken to calling you bae  or baby in the most exasperated ways, but you prefer his first one. 

"You know me better than I know you," you muse quietly, knowing you won't be able to sleep for a while now.  "But maybe i'm starting to get the hang of you too. Your mannerisms, I guess."

"Hm," he chuckles. " Maybe so."

He's definitely easier to talk to high, and you suppose that he isn't doing anything scandalous or dangerous for him to have his guard let down enough to smoke. You know from experience that he gets hazy and knocks out whenever he does so which has you telling him with an attitude not to drive home until he's cool enough to. It's nearly 4 when you finally hang up, annoyed that you're alone, but unable to do anything about it but keep watching tv despite your exhaustion.

Your baby has decided to wake up, and her  _something_ is starting to press up against your spine again. You know she isn't doing it to purposefully slight you, after all, your uterus isn't exactly prime real estate but she's going to have to learn that she's renting not owning. Walking around isn't in the cards right now and neither is N'Jadaka to talk at your stomach and get her to move her big head off your insides so you settle for taking your phone and pressing shuffle on your lofi playlist to try and remedy this.

It's all you play for her when you remember to, and you never know if it works or not because you tend to fall asleep before you can tell.

 

When you start awake again it only feels as if seconds have passed, and for a minute you think so until you hear snoring. Sunlight is peeking from under your blackout curtains but going by the lack of alarm going off it's before 9. 

Next to you, N'Jadaka is unsurprisingly wearing absolutely nothing, smelling of body wash and soft linen when you scoot closer to him for warmth.  You've learned your lesson, having your smaller full mattress in reserve for guests and his larger king size in the bedroom. It's heaven, especially with the ability to get away from him if he's radiating too much heat.

Your stomach is giving you the all clear, meaning your little gymnast has chilled out so you don't plan on moving much for another couple hours just to relish in the rare moment you don't have a backache. 

Sydney texts you right as you try and get comfortable on your left side. Figures.

_> > soooooooooo i mean we all know this shit is out of context and whatnot but that sneak-dissing hoe is back at it again at the krispy kreme._

**_> > using memes isn't gonna soften the blow _ **

**_> > on that note, i miss vine lol shit_ **

And then you see the screenshot she sent, not at all expecting to see that blight on your soul B entirely too close to N'Jadaka in some club. It looks like she's whispering in his ear, or at least trying to, but all you can see is the back of his head and nothing more.

Regardless, you reach over to plug N'Jadaka's big nose with a pinch between your thumb and forefinger, predictably causing him to snort and flinch awake like he's about to kill someone. 

"The fuck-"

You shove the phone in his face, so close he can't even see until he yanks it from you and stares down at the photo on the screen.  All things considered, you  _know_ you have nothing to worry about as far as him fucking around with her or anyone but the image just sparked the nastiest deja vu in you that you feel like strangling him.

Most women probably would have back then, but luckily for him you were going through a lot and unlearning even more.

But you aren't now.

He sucks his teeth, squinting, before tossing the phone back at you and rolling over with his back to you. 

"Excuse me," you say, poking him on the shoulder. You took your acrylic nails off, and they feel like nubs now. "What's happening in this photo?"

"The fuck it look like?"

"You got one more 'fuck' before I punch you."

He has an attitude because you woke him up but you don't care so you ask him again, trying your hardest not to wake up your baby but you think she might if you don't relax soon. 

With a hard sigh he exclaims that he can't stop people from trying to say shit to him in clubs, and that if you wanted him to strong arm her across the dance floor than all you had to do was say so. You hate when this happens; when you're made to feel stupid for getting mad because you only saw one part of the picture. Or in this case, one picture without the before or the after. 

He goes on and on and on about you having him fucked up for thinking he'd be in public 'hugged up with her ass' and when you mention the first time you'd seen her he tells you to get over it. That he was getting over shit too and that y'all are past that (you still think his curt 'my bad' was a wack apology but that's neither here nor there). Patiently, you wait for him to finish sleepily complaining about you thinking he's about to go get 'random ass' because your nosy girls will tell you.

Stubbornly, you say, "I'm sure you'd find a way. You hide shit from me all the time."

"Keep talkin'."

"And what? I'll kill you, bitch, fuck you."

There's a moment of brief silence before he just bursts out laughing, and you love when he does because you so rarely hear him crack up. Usually he chuckles or snickers or snorts, making some one-note noise that signifies that something you said amused him. You think he's going to stop and call you goofy or chastise you in his semi-playful way for calling him a 'bitch' but he just keeps laughing, so hard he's shaking the mattress a bit.

You roll your eyes, sliding down to fit back under the covers to try and catch a few more hours of sleep you desperately need.

After a bit he just says, "Mean ass," before rolling over to face you.

This image is so domestic and he looks so damn  _good_ he keeps making you forget that you're annoyed at him. Maybe not annoyed that B breathed in his presence but annoyed that he made you feel stupid for it. As if the mere idea of him cheating on you is beneath him. A killer like him, not feeling like he'd have a side chick or two. It's funny; and while you are carrying his child you can't put it past dudes because you've seen and heard some stories.

Men with whole marriages, children, mortgages and a yard cheat. There's always someone a little prettier...a little looser...

N'Jadaka distracts you from your thoughts by  shifting his naked and obscene body closer to you. He's staring you down, looking at your disgruntled morning face to the scarf on your head and the long plait going down your back. All you're wearing is a tank top and a pair of boyshorts, and your cleavage is the next topic of discussion.

"Them shits was all the way out that shirt when I came in," he says, gesturing. 

"Hope you enjoyed the show. What time did you come in?"

And like the immature child he is he immediately makes a comment about missing your braids, not even bothering to answer your question despite the fact that you sort of have an answer. He hasn't been home for long, and he looks exhausted if the bags under his eyes are any indication. That post-jail glow is still lingering but it's also showcasing how little sleep he got the past few months. Prison beds can't be the most accommodating, and that's for the skinny dudes.

But you have an attitude and you're sticking to it.

He's still looking at you when you come out of your thoughts and you roll your eyes because you already know your Hoe Thoughts are starting to push her way through to the front. You're sexually frustrated and it's not going to go anywhere the longer you ignore it but having a watermelon attached to you isn't really a nice way to relieve it. So you stuff Hoe Thoughts back into the suitcase for now and pull the covers back over you.

The silence lends itsself to more thought, and the possibility of you getting rest without N'Jadaka snoring next to you like an old man when he's tired. Truth is,  _you're_ tired and you're tired all the time from having another body leech everything from you with little return. It sounds bad when you phrase it that way but your nameless child has taken you from feeling fresh and young to feeling old, and you have so many more years before you get to that point. 

More often than not your phone calls to N'Jadaka while he was away were nothing but you complaining and crying while he just listened, or wanting of his touch and not being able to get it. Now you can, but you're so caught up in being annoyed that you don't ask or imply. You just lie on your left side and stare him dead in the eyes. 

Your best conversations, your deepest ones, are always over the phone  never in person. And that's funny to you, because even still you think it's because you feel so exposed when he looks at you like this. Phone conversations have no distractions.

"Whatchu gon' name her?"

You shrug, closing your eyes and sighing. As far as names go you've narrowed it down to three, but you'll run it by him when you don't feel so tired. Now you just want him to shut up and hug you or something, do something useful since he wants to be all naked and smelling good next to you. When he rolls over to face the other way you rudely climb over him just to be in front.

He mutters a, "Damn," before scooting closer to the middle of the bed so the two of you aren't balancing at the edge.

But he gets the picture, mumbling about you of course being spoiled and mean but where does he think you get it from?

That's why you decide not to let it go just yet, shrugging his arms off you not even twenty minutes later with an attitude. Seeing B so close to him  _really_ has you thinking about that day he let her embarrass you in front of all his friends and cropped King's ears and just because you're 'over' it doesn't mean this isn't deserved.

"I'm mad at you," you say, and you're sure you'll be saying it a lot. "I believe you about not really being hugged up with her ass last night but I should still punch you for that day at the party."

He sucks his teeth. "You still on that shit?"

Incredulous, you lean up to face him to show him the mean look on your face. You're pregnant and you're lacking closure and he's going to have to deal with it. 

"Baby-"

"Don't 'baby' me," you start, folding your arms. "Get up so I can smack you for that; you can take it."

He stares at you blankly for a few minutes before rolling his eyes and leaning up to face you; making sure his own is inches away from yours. This may be childish and it is something you used to do as a kid with your friends but sometimes you think about how upset and belittled you felt on that day and get mad all over again. Devon was all over your spirit, keeping you from really letting N'Jadaka have it because you were afraid he'd simply ditch you and find someone else. Sure, that was his last time disrespecting you like that, but he didn't  truly get what he deserved. B did, but not his ass and not from you.

It's even more infuriating that he's smirking like this is so funny, and it is , but you said what you said and you're going to do it. You just know he thinks you can't do anything but lightly tickle his skin by the smug look on his face.

"Go 'head," he shoots, giving you a challenging look. "So you can let that shit go."

"Oh I let it go," you reply, flexing your right hand. "But you got lucky I'm not as crazy as you because that house of yours would've been on fire."

"Thought you  _was_ crazy, left-eye."

"You got lucky," you repeat, trying not to start laughing. 

"And you got a mean right-hook."

All you do is agree with a , "Yup, sure do!" before doing just what you said you were going to. The slap takes him completely off guard, you can tell by the way his eyebrows jump, but other than that his head doesn't move. He looks impressed, mouth curling into that devilish grin you hate and love at the same time. 

Now you're ready to go sleep on the couch, fussing that he was supposed to be humbled by the slap and not turned on. 

"Oh, you  _really_ gettin' tore up later."

"Oh my GOD."

 

* * *

 

 

_'I wish a nigga would-'_

For the second time in two days you feel like strangling someone, waken up yet again by the sounds of that damn song because N'Jadaka's an ass. In fact, you feel like telling him this as you peel yourself out of bed in fresh pajamas you'd dressed in only a couple hours before. He'd asked you why you woke up, showered, and lotioned up just to put on more pajamas and you asked him why he didn't care about you enough to make you some blended ice chips.

Rather than finding him getting ready to leave you and go drink in some club he's in the kitchen bobbing his head in front of the stove. No shirt and low hanging sweatpants, and the smell of something delicious and garlic-y and filling. 

Because he's cooking, you take down your rage just a notch to slide into the seat at the kitchen bar. The high windows are open and the breeze feels nice; it's that level of twilight where the sun is just starting to set and the nightlife is beginning to come alive downtown. Sometimes you don't realize how long you sleep lately, only really staying awake for a few hours to do some at-home work for your job. That, or getting appointments ready or trying to plan labor day down to the bag you'll be carrying in the day before.

All of the women in your family have had notoriously long labors and you're fully prepared to be in no different boat. You've already got the gown you'll be wearing picked too; Kayla laughed and called you bougie but you'd rather wear the soft black cotton delivery dress with the ties than a scratchy hospital gown. 

There's a scratched out sticky note on the counter from earlier so you take it and throw it at N'Jadaka's back to get his attention. You expect him to be cool about it but instead he flinches and whirls around like you're about to catch an elbow but luckily you're a couple feet away. 

"Good evening," you say, smiling.

"Wassup."

"You like this song, don't you?"

He shrugs. "It's aight."

You gaze longingly at his back as he returns to the stove, feeling very much like you're ready to risk it all for just a feel. But then you remember that you already got him, and you're taken aback by it once again because your tired brain has you a little out of it lately. 

But nothing is more attractive than the large shrimp sizzling in the pan, tumbling so nicely onto the nearby paper towel-covered plate to drain. There's another pot on the stove, one of your nice saucepans, and you're curious as to what he's making. The oven is on, too, and it has you more captivated than those drama-filled reality shows he chastises you for watching. 

Below you, King taps on past and around the bar to see what the smell is but N'Jadaka rudely tells him to move. 

"Don't yell at my dog," you say. 

"Tell him to get his ass out the kitchen, then."

You've told him before that there are nicer ways to order King around without sounding like some aggro Alpha-Male, but you suppose if your dog is used to it you should be too. As consolation, you hop down to retrieve the can of treats you spent too much money on at some independent dog spa. 

He's been extra protective of your belly lately, and N'Jadaka missed a lot of it having been gone so long. Anyone that touches or acts like they're going to touch your stomach gets a bark and a nose bop, nothing aggressive but you die laughing every time it's happened. "Hey, N."

He's hums at you, too preoccupied with looking through the spice cabinet for something to face you. You make him do so, though, going over to push his shoulder just so you can reach up and wrap your arms around his neck. He kind of stands there at first, annoyed because you're 'in the way', but just as he goes to return the hug there's a growl and a bark.

King has pushed his way in between the two of you like a jealous child, nudging N'Jadaka away with his head. Or at least he tries to, because the man doesn't hardly move. King's tail is wagging all the same but you'd think he was baring his fangs by the offended way N'Jadaka looks down at him. You don't think you've ever heard a grown man call a dog 'nigga' but there's a first time for everything.

"Be nice!" you shout to the both of them, one hand on King's snout and the other on N'Jadaka's stomach. One of your rowdy ass boys is just trying to play and the other might really be trying to fight and this whole scenario is too funny to take seriously. 

To make matters worse, your baby starts kicking and you swear she takes the wind out of your soul because you go from laughing to doubled over in two seconds flat. This must be a side effect of having a baby by a man that's consumed whatever souped-up magical herb T'Challa gave him. You thought you weren't even really supposed to feel her kick like this considering she's your first pregnancy, and yet....

N'Jadaka tells you to go lay back down but you brush his concern away to return to your seat at the bar. You assure him, as he plates whatever he's cooking, that you went through this many a time the past three months. More often than not you were alone and on the bathroom floor, the bedroom floor or the driver's seat in your truck. 

He opens a drawer to get a couple forks out before saying, "Well I'm here now."

"I know."

"And If I tell you to do somethin', Imma need yo little disobedient ass to do it."

"Don't know, sorry."

And that's when he turns around to set a plate in front of you; a big, loaded baked potato with shrimp and cheese and garlic butter and parsley next to french-cut green beans. It's basically all you had in the fridge, so you're happy he went ahead and put something together. You've always seen so many photos of seafood potatoes that made you want to lick the damn screen and here you have it right in front of you. A man! This will definitely have your stomach fucked up later because she doesn't like rich foods but you're going to enjoy it while you can.

N'Jadaka actually addresses it as he sits next to you, making you feel like you're sitting at a diner. "You gon' be good after this?"

"Nope," you reply, shoving a big forkful into your mouth. "She can sit in there and be quiet because I'm sick of sandwiches."

He chuckles at you before tapering off into silence, leaving you to continue eating a few more bites before getting too uncomfortable to continue. Him staring at you is one of those habits of his that you don't think you'll get used to; it's so offputting, but this time he seems to be examining you rather than trying to figure you out.

You pause to look at him, wondering why he's staring, but he only stares back silently. You don't think you're physically unable to avoid looking at his lips whenever they're moving in any facet and it's worrying. 

He only asks, "What's her name?"

And for the millionth time, you shrug, although for a different reason. You had Malcolm do a little sleuthing, a little nosy digging while you were unable to sleep the other night because his dad has access to records you necessarily wouldn't. In his digging he found you a name, one that you only hope won't cause a negative reaction once you tell it because you can never be sure what's tricky when it comes to N'Jadaka.

"Tell you later," you go, suddenly nervous. "What came in the mail today?"

He pauses before letting out a snort at your sudden changing of the subject.

There's a pile of envelopes on the counter that you weren't paying attention to, and you always feel like an old person whenever you carefully flip through mail. The sales papers annoy you the most, as do the bills but luckily for you N'Jadaka's name is on them. 

You're about to tease him about this but something deep in your damn soul tells you that the good food N'Jadaka just cooked you is about to come back up. You don't know why, but you know you won't make it to the bathroom, and something just has you sitting there frozen with your eyes wide.

"_____," N'Jadaka says, nudging you. "You good?"

"I'm gonna throw up," is what you manage to say, finally trying to take that first step off the stool. You don't feel like your foot touches anything even though you're positive the floor is nearby. It's weird, just like you feel, unsure why vomit isn't coming up like it's supposed to. You're down and N'Jadaka's up, and then he's gone, probably going to get his phone because he and everyone in your life is so damn dramatic. 

It's not like your water broke, or anything like that, so you aren't worried about the fact that you're laid out on the floor as his dumb ass accidentally presses play on that damn song again as he tries to call an actual paramedic. 

You're about sick of this shit. 


	43. the ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my anxiety is dumb stupid crazy lately,,,,, i'll try to update more frequently~
> 
>  
> 
> (anyone see endgame? i saw it twice now and im upset 3000)

 

"I only passed out, I didn't die."

"Well, yes ma'am, but-"

"Can I get off the floor now?"

The exasperated paramedic, no doubt used to dealing with difficult people, puts away the equipment he was just using to monitor your blood pressure. Truthfully, you're annoyed that you couldn't finish your food and you're annoyed that you feel nauseous as all hell at the thought of touching it again.

Your butt feels like it's permanently flattened with how long you've been sitting on the floor as they checked you over, and when it's concluded that you don't need to be rushed to the hospital they bid you farewell. But not before telling you your blood pressure is a little high and that you should go in to see your doctor soon just in case.

You hate that phrase. 'Just In Case.' It implies entirely too much and it's not what you needed right now. Truthfully, this whole ordeal has kind of scared you because so far your second trimester hasn't had anything like this happen to you. Only the occasional pain from a kick or from the weight of your stomach. No fainting or no gut-churning nausea that has you dizzy as N'Jadaka helps you to your feet. 

And just like you expect, he's tailing you on the way to the couch with a violent demand you go in to the doctor tomorrow. 

You flinch, glaring up at him for his tone before grabbing the remote control and turning on the tv.  If he knew that you were actually pissed the hell off because you can't finish his good ass food, he'd laugh, but you suppose the two of you need a little laughter. 

"How long you been doin' that?" he asks, roughly sitting next to you.

"Today," you say honestly. "My mom had high blood pressure when she was pregnant with me, too...But hers was bad. Everytime I get a headache I think about her preeclampsia and I get nervous because this is my first baby and i'm young and-"

The more you ramble the more you feel yourself getting riled up and before you know it N'Jadaka is trying to calm you down with one hand on the back of your neck. You like when he does that, love it even more when he puts one hand on the back of your head and just rubs his fingers on your scalp like your stylist does when she shampoos your head. He can't do it now because of your sew in, and it makes you wanna yank the shit out just so he can. 

You just prefer his rough, calloused, hands to be all over you.

Preferably your sore chest, your newly sore behind, or maybe your belly but in the meantime you move to your feet.  You decide in the end against watching tv in the living room, knowing you should just brush your teeth and get back to bed now that your nerves are shot. 

N'Jadaka is on your heels again, and you stop in the hallway to bump him with your butt in response. "Go finish eating! I'm going to sleep. And wrap mine up please."

You say the last bit with a glare down at your stomach, because you know She's halfway behind the way your insides churned after a couple bites. 

 

 

-

Your sleep is a little restless, dreamless and light enough that you wake up at the slightest noise from around you. It started thunderstorming at some point during the night and usually the noise has you out but now you flinch with every clap of thunder or every flash of lightning. The storm isn't very close, so the noise is a faint rumble if anything, but by the fifth time you give up to roll over and bug the man next to you. 

To your surprise he isn't asleep, squinting down at the light from his phone that is  _still_ too damn bright to be good for his eyes. It's like he turns it to max in the dark and you keep telling him to stop. 

"Hey," you whisper, voice hoarse from sleep.

He only raises his eyebrows. 

"Can you plug in my heating pad please?"

Kayla had gotten it for you a few weeks ago when she was at some home goods store; and you'd teased her because she was doing a bad job of pretending like she wasn't shopping for your baby shower. You've completely left it in your friends' hands, and you think that this is all going to happen in a couple weeks after your parents get back from their cruise. 

And your mom is so cute about it, too, posting all her outfits she's going to wear on facebook to which your aunties have a lot to say. They want you to get a last minute ticket and come but you politely refused.

You're too busy nursing this rock in your stomach, your precious rock you'll love with all your heart once she stops pressing her damn head into your spine.  You roll onto your left side, lifting a bit just so N'Jadaka can lay your heating pad underneath you. The relief causes you to sigh in pleasure but it's not enough past the initial feeling. You're too restless and uneasy, still thinking of the Queen Mother's innocent warnings and your possible health issues. 

You've found that you don't like being pregnant anymore, because you feel two seconds away from falling apart at any time.  You suppose that you are, but there's something about this pregnancy that has you worried. When you tell N'Jadaka, he rolls over to spoon you with a jab that you're paranoid. His extra body heat has you melting right against him and you really wish you felt like bending the hell over. 

"You doing anything tomorrow?" you ask after a while, desperate to fill the silence. You don't expect him to still be awake yet he answers you all the same. 

"Goin' to look at this house," he says. "Since I gotta sell my old one."

"I'm sorry."

"You good. Shit, I was hardly in there before you so maybe I'll fuck around and get a condo until she get big. Sick of cuttin' the damn grass."

"I'm sure you looked awful doing it, too," you joke, wanting to see that yourself. "My parents made me cut the grass all the time in high school and I ran over a baby possum once and cried about it for two hours."

He chuckles before saying, "I'm sure you did, Killer."

There's another press into your stomach and you wince, finally about to haul up and fight your own unborn baby but it is what it is. You hiss for her to go to sleep before remembering reading on one of the pregnancy blogs you have bookmarked that 'the rocking motion from sex with your significant other has been known to lull fussy, kicking, babies to sleep.' It's weird to you to think of both words in the same sentence but several of the pregnant women at your yoga class have said the same thing. That they relish in the chance to make love before they  _really_ won't be able to for a while, but the baby calming down is a helpful side-perk. 

Maybe N'Jadaka is feeling the wave you're on because the way he's looking at you when he flips you onto your back is telling it all. You kind of have an attitude about the way he's manhandling you, making sure to huff and puff as he lifts your tshirt up. For him to have so much issue with your round stomach staring back at him he sure does ignore it to yank you closer under the covers.

When you ask him what makes him think this will be any better than the last he does nothing but grunt something that may or may not be human language. Through the warming weather he's been comfortable sleeping (and answering the door) naked, and it's been both a blessing and a curse. He damn near has to be forced to pull on a pair of sweats sometimes. Sydney came by to drop something off earlier and you wondered if you were going to have to choke her for staring a bit too hard when he answered the door.

He does look extra fine now that he's done jail time, which is a weird thought but an honest one all the same.

You're surprised, though, by the way that he doesn't even sneak any fingers or touches anywhere south of your belly button. Instead it seems like he just wants to see your body, actually, for the first time since he's been out. Usually it's partially, or covered by a blanket, but now he's staring down at you with this look you can't decipher. It seems you completely misread his facial expression, always assuming by default that he wants to sleep with you whenever his eyes meet yours.

You have to smile a bit; being looked at like you're a Queen never gets old. And you suppose you are one, had he still been on the throne that is. But who are you kidding, in actuality you'd be considered a mistress at worst and a lover at best.

"Hey," is how you break the silence. "What if she looks like you?"

"You askin' me that like it's a problem."

"It is," you say, snorting. "She needs to look like me; I'm doing the most work. God..She's gonna look like you."

He proceeds to ignore  your playful worrying to bring up your instagram account, asking about what kind of DMs you get and from whom. At first, when you pull your phone out to see, you assume he's being jealous of the men that hop into your comments  every now and again whenever you post a selfie. Lately, though, you've been sure to include your stomach to keep them tame but it hasn't been working.

Some random is still asking for feet pics.

Silently, you reach over to show him your message requests, furrowing your eyebrows at the serious way he's regarding them. You almost want to laugh; it's not that deep.

"N, they're just spam acc-"

"Not this one, she used to run with B back in the day," he goes, scrolling. "And I know this nigga; remind me to knock his damn teeth out for all them emojis. You not that damn funny."

You roll your eyes, listening to both the thunderstorm outside and the crazed ranting of N'Jadaka as he explains B's apparent vendetta with you that you could care less about. She's just jealous, and she can stay mad all she damn wants to as far as you're concerned; but you can't help but think about the fact that her and Devon always seemed to be near each other whenever you saw them. It's some deep conspiracy shit, too much for you to think about this late at night and you huff impatiently as you turn up the setting on the heating pad. 

You ask, "Are you done making me anxious? Are you? Don't tell me anything, just protect me and keep rubbing my stomach."

"I can't be around all the time," he says, moving his hand in circular motions on your belly."You need to know what I need you to know. And her stalkin' ass is gettin' on my nerves so I might need you to watch her."

You think of the gun training he was supposed to be giving you months ago, and the fact that the small pistol he'd given you is locked in a safe at your parents' house because you'd forgotten it when you were moving around. 

"Well," you start, staring at the ceiling. "You want me to believe some jealous ex of yours is out to get me with her friends like some shitty B-movie?"

"Maybe. Can't rule out nothin'."

"Then you attract batshit ass girls."

"Sure do," he goes, and when you look at him he's smirking at you because you walked your ass right into that one. 

You just roll your eyes to ask, "Did you know you ain't really kissed me since you got out?"

"You ain't really shut up since I got out."

 

 

\--

 

 

For the first time since N'Jadaka's been back, you wake up first. You aren't jolted awake by his music or startled to find him getting ready to go sit in some club; it's quiet and it's comfortable and you aren't used to it. Namely because having to take King outside to use the bathroom takes more energy than you care to use.

It's the first time you wake up with no pains or harsh anxieties, not feeling like you want to bury beneath the covers for another 12 hours or cry from the sheer existential horror of being alive. The noise in your brain is quiet and you were content enough to go run a few errands and go over a few things with Ramirez about the hospital you've  chosen. 

It's a  _productive_ morning for once, so by the time you sink back into the couch with a decaf in one hand and the remote in the other, you don't feel like you're wasting the day away. 

The clock on the tv lets you know that it's a little past noon when the first signs of life comes from the back of the apartment. As usual, King trots his way back there to investigate the noise before being shooed away by N'Jadaka because he loudly has to pee with the door open. Then he  _has_ to make several gross throat noises as he brushes his teeth and uses mouthwash, it isn't an option. Once you asked him if he had to put his teeth in too since he wants to sound like an old ass man and he wasn't amused in the slightest. He hates it, as it's your spiteful alternative to calling him 'daddy.'

Technically, though, he's older than you so technically you're in your rights to call him an old man. 

"Hey~" you finally call, leaning your head against the back of the couch. It's from your apartment and so much better than his. "I'm glad I wasn't out here kidnapped, again, because you wouldn't have even noticed with how long it's taking you to come out here."

There's silence as the faucet turns off and you aren't sure he heard you until he replies, "They'd send you back the second you start talkin' so I ain't worried."

"You're gonna miss me when I'm gone."

"Where you goin'."

"To find me another baby daddy since you wanna keep being an ass," you say, giggling as a bare toilet paper roll comes soaring out of the hall and toward you.  You catch it just as N'Jadaka makes his presence known, and just like you assume, he's bare butt ass naked. Seeing his body in the daylight is as obscene as it is breathtaking and you shyly avert your eyes to focus instead on the Flavor of Love rerun on tv. You never really could bring yourself to walk around naked when you lived alone, the barest you've gone being a bra and panties because some paranoid part in your mind was always convinced someone was watching.

But now you're the someone , peering over at him as he stares  at you from the kitchen with a blank look on his face. "What?"

He snorts. "What, you shy now?"

"No," you say. "Put that thing away there are children present."

And with that you point to your stomach with one hand and King with the other before bursting out laughing as if you've just told the funniest joke in the world.  He only scoffs at you, before disappearing into the back and reappearing only with a pair of those low-hanging sweatpants he likes to tease you in.

You watch, sipping your coffee thoughtfully, as he saunters over to the couch and rudely plops down hard enough to disrupt your comfortable position. When you object, he  grabs your legs and swings them onto his lap. Swollen ankles and all, you keep on sipping while he keeps on staring at you. 

His eyes won't leave yours for the longest, flicking down momentarily to your face before he reaches over to grab (yet another) eyelash off your cheek. It's probably the last time you'll ever let your cousin do your lashes as they've been falling off constantly since you got them. In your eye, in your drinks, or landing perfectly on your cheeks. But secretly, you like when they do, as the feeling of N'Jadaka reaching over to pluck them off your face makes a goofy grin spread across your face.

It's almost fitting it's when you decide to lean forward to get a kiss, and it's just as fitting for him to playfully deny you like you always do him. You get his chin instead, but rather than pull away at the scratchy feeling of his beard you think back to when you were nervous around him. When he bought you lipstick and you got carried away and couldn't stop yourself from leaving red marks all over his neck while he pretended not to love it. Men are so funny, so tough and brash and he's damn near purring at the way your lips are touching his skin. 

There's something very attractive about the way the roles are reversed, just like it was then, only the universe sees fit to ruin your moment with a hard knock on the apartment door. 

Harshly, N'Jadaka snaps, "What?!" at the closed door only for a spooked voice to say their name in response.

He looks over at you, annoyed, but you smile and haul yourself to your feet to go let Sydney in with her work delivery. Paid maternity leave sounds great but you refuse to set it in motion until just as you're about to pop; so in the meantime you've been working from home and sometimes going into the office.  You wonder when you've turned into such a busybody but sometimes you're actually  _antsy_ at not being in that environment; sitting at your desk with your decorations and coffee and earbuds in playing lofi hip hop as you tap away at your computer. 

At the door, Sydney steps hesitantly around you with a canvas tote bag in hand and a grey teddy bear in the other. You're more interested in the latter, taking it from her and smiling at the yellow embroidery on the snout. 

"That," she goes, setting the work bag on the kitchen bar. "Was 70 dollars."

"What? Why?!"

"You know how those damn boutiques are," she says. "Some underpaid woman in a third world country probably made that and they have the nerve to charge that much...but it's cute, though, right?! It was supposed to be 50 but they charge an extra 20 for embroidered initials so I got a little 'K' for-"

You set the bear down and give your babbling friend a look, raising your eyebrows with a smirk because you haven't told N'Jadaka what you want to name your baby yet. He keeps asking, impatient, but you want to surprise him slash be far enough away if he blows up and starts breathing fire downtown.

Instead of bringing more attention to it you change the subject, looking instead at Sydney's outfit and her work badge pinned to her blouse. She must be on her lunch break as the office isn't that far, but she's too busy shying away from N'Jadaka's gaze from the couch to speak. He hasn't stopped his glowering, and you're sure he hasn't gotten up because his sweatpants are going to snitch completely on him and the situation you were just in. 

Before you can say much else, Sydney claims that she has to get back to work and you visibly deflate as she leans in to hug you. Often times, lately, everyone gets on your damn nerves but at the same time you miss hanging out with your girls in the way that you used to. Being pregnant has ensured that you can[t hang all that long without wanting to go to sleep and you know it's all going to get worse during the last bit of your pregnancy.

Lately, the only company you get is the other pregnant women in your yoga class. You can only take so much talk of getting back to bikini bodies and the newest fad diet before you want to snap.

"-See you on the 19th!" 

You look at Sydney in confusion as she makes her way back to the door. That's a whole two weeks from now and you wonder why she's not expecting to see you before then. But because your friends are annoying, she winks and slides you the invitation to your own damn baby shower before disappearing down the hallway. You roll your eyes and close the door behind her, holding the expensive cardstock high in the air as N'Jadaka impatiently looks on. 

"Baby shower's on the 19th I guess," you say. "Uh...get ready to show up and be irritated by my family for a few hours. A lot of them haven't even seen you so, get ready for that."

As you make your way back to the couch he mumbles something about hating baby showers and to that you have to start laughing. Honestly, you've never been much of a fan either, liking the gifts and food better than all the fanfare in between. The last two showers in your family were nothing short of disasters, being ruined by rowdy guests with no home training or uncles causing strife by bringing their 'new girlfriends that may or may not have ruined a marriage.' 

And even worse, you think, you're kind of hoping something dumb happens at yours because you like being an onlooker to drama. It's never been anything 'serious' just a couple of hot messes, and you'd be lying if you said it wasn't funny.

 _Something_ has to be; you're tired of being tired.

 

 

 

 


	44. fire and blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter title dedicated to my favorite game of thrones character whomst i still love and adore even tho the writers forgot how to write her in the last season bc they wouldve rathered ditched the show for star wars oops.
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy!

On the eve of your baby shower, you have a weird dream. 

It starts about as well as your other pregnancy dreams, wild and vivid but not too upsetting, but then it changed. It changed and you called N'Jadaka in tears, upset and annoyed that he wasn't next to you to comfort you in person. The house he went to look at was gorgeous; not too big and not too small, not as large as his previous one but it was amazing and he'd bought it the next day. When you asked about the lease to the apartment, he assured you that you wouldn't have to break it and when you joked about living separately until it did he shrugged. 

Secretly, you think he's starting to get nervous about having a baby, and it was so easy to push away that anxiety when you were throwing up and nothing more. Now your baby shower is almost here and your stomach is so round it's hard to ignore the ensuing arrival. You catch him staring at your stomach often, just staring with a look on his face you can't decipher, and when you ask he brushes your concern away.

A man like him doesn't seem like he'd have any children, or that he'd have many with many lovers, it could go either way. You believe that he doesn't have any (that he knows about) so you can only regard his silly behavior as adorable apprehension. Truthfully, you're scared too, and often lie awake at night wondering if you've made the right decision but the fact of the matter is you made it and you'll do your best.

But sometimes you wonder about N'Jadaka, worry. You have no doubt in your mind that he'll make good on his promise on being a father but you also can't help but ask yourself if he'll be able to make the switch between his old life and new so easily. You worry about him so much it makes you sick, worry about his 'friends' and his enemies and those that seek to take from him in any way that you can. 

And whenever you express these worries, his answer is always the same:  _i'mma be alright._

It doesn't help that you're completely unable to have any kinds of sex with the way your body aches and you can see it's driving him nuts. That high sex drive of his couldn't have done him any favors during the 3 months he was away from you and now that he's back it's no better. He refuses your offers of  _other_ ways to help him ease his frustrations, seeing it as pointless and succeeding in doing nothing else but making it all worse. 

You think it's why he disappears so much, not necessarily to find some other able bodied girl to ease his frustrations, but to channel all that energy into some kind of distraction. 

The sound of the front door lock turning distracts you from your thoughts, and rather than wait for him in bed you go through the trouble of pulling yourself to your feet. It's a little after midnight, and the two of you are expected to be fully presentable a little after early afternoon. You don't think you're mentally ready, but luckily the invitation made it clear that everybody is expected out after 3 hours. It's why you requested a venue rather than having it at a relatives' house.

Light food only, you want your gifts and then you want to get out and sleep. 

N'Jadaka makes a pit-stop in the kitchen before he gets to you, ignoring King's wagging tail and curious nose as he shoves some to-go containers into the fridge. He seems guarded, something that King notices you're sure because he quickly runs up to you for attention instead. 

You don't know why you feel the need to apologize to him as you watch him move about the kitchen with a frustrated air about him, but you do and it confuses him. 

He glances over at you, one eyebrow quirked before moving to pass you. "What you sorry for."

"I don't know."

"So don't apologize."

"Okay."

And that's the end of the exchange. He finally shuts the light off in the kitchen, going to your bedroom with a bottle of some brand of alkaline water in his hand. He drinks it constantly and you always want to punch him for throwing the bottles away when they're recyclable. You have a bin and you're doing your part for the environment so his ass better do the same.

It doesn't take long for him to shed his clothes and dump them into the hamper, and it's right when he pulls back the covers does he scoff at the mess around him. There are random items all over the floor, magazines and discarded socks and underwear that gives it the appearance of a teenager's bedroom and not yours. And usually you're good about keeping a clean area (since you know how he is with clutter), but it's true you've been letting it regress back to how it was when you lived alone.

In your defense, you offer, "I can't bend down that far, you know that."

And that's the end of the exchange.

Rather than join him in bed you start to mess around with stuff on the dressers, rearranging your perfume bottles or stuffing clothes back into their respective drawers and as each minute passes the oppressive silence grows. You just feel so irritable and tired that you've been scaring yourself with your own thoughts and dreams. Afraid of what you do and say in them, that is. 

You're desperate for a distraction, aching for something that isn't just you sitting at home while N'Jadaka disappears because he's so stir crazy he just gets irritable when he's alone with you. 

When you glance at him he's staring dead at you, sitting up against the headboard with his legs spread so wide you can't help but stare directly at his lap as if compelled by an unseen force. He always sits like this and it drives you crazy in more ways than one.

"C'mere," is all he says, and you're over there in a flash. He looks you up and down, eyes lingering for a few seconds longer on your belly  ever-so-slightly poking out from underneath the old Prince tee shirt you're wearing.

Effortlessly he leans over to lift you by one arm behind your back, placing you on his lap like you weigh two pounds and it stirs something deep inside you that makes you angry because you can't get your back broken like you need to right now. You want to ask him where he's been all night, because you're hungry, but he ignores you in favor what's covered by your linen pajama shorts. His fingers are in pursuit of wetness you definitely aren't producing, and you've changed the subject to your hair. 

The sew in is gone, replaced by nothing but your own hair, slicked back and parted and ready for the long curly ponytail that's waiting in the bathroom. You think all of the shit you have tying your hair down might make you lose some brain cells but your edges will be  _laid_ tomorrow and that's all that matters. 

N'Jadaka swears under his breath below you, tossing you rather roughly onto your side and off of his lap. You land softly, glaring over at him as he seems to fill up the entire room by the way he stands up and towers over you. You think that maybe he'll leave in a huff again, but instead his predatory gaze flickers down to the way your legs are sprawled open and just like that his hands are on you.

"You haven't seen me all day," you say, taking one foot and placing it on his chest as he moves in. "Did you ask me if I wanted you to touch me?"

You're not really angry, just bored and more than a  _little_ annoyed at his attitude, but you're fine displaying it. Just to be spiteful.  But spite isn't fun when he doesn't cooperate. The attitude you were expecting him to exhibit by having your foot on him like this is gone when he grabs hold of your ankle and kisses it, surprising you. It's rough and full of lust, no doubt, but it's enough of a surprise to have you silent and stuck as he grabs your other. 

"So you're not gonna say anything?" you manage to ask, trying to ignore the goosebumps shooting up your arms. Your shirt would be betraying your faux-indifference if it weren't so big, but the way you seize when he yanks your shorts down is enough proof. 

With that same look on his face he catches you off guard again, seething, "You not even that damn big yet."

He seems to be talking more to himself than you.

"Wait until you get 9 months," he continues, frowning down at you. "Then you  _really_ gon have a reason for walkin' around here like an old ass woman. Lookin' this damn good, you got me fucked up with this vow of celibacy shit."

The more he talks the closer he looms over you, acting like it's your fault you're apparently walking around here attracting him like a cat in heat. He mentions the way you smell more than a few times and it has you wondering, really wondering, what the hell was in that herb T'Challa gave him months ago. You watch, fascinated almost, as he looks you over with half-lidded eyes  clouded with you don't even know what. Half of it is frustration, the other half you don't know what.

But then he kisses you and you know it's Hennessy. 

Half of your brain wants to know why he's been out drinking and then drove home but the other half is too busy yelping when his rough, calloused hands grab a handful of your left  .

"Don't squeeze it!" you shout, meaning every word. "Please don't."

He's too busy staring at it in his hand, eyebrows furrowing as he does what you can only assume is 'examine' the engorged sandbags stuck to your front. You've never wished to not have boobs so bad in your damn life these past few months.

"Why they so damn hard?"

"Because I'm pregnant," you say, reminding him and ruining the atmosphere.  "I'm gonna need you not to squeeze either of the girls, thank you."

"I heard you the first time."

N'Jadaka seems to remember the 'Killmonger' spiel he was just putting on because he suddenly drops his black sweatpants and it throws you all the way for a loop. He must have been thinking  _hard_ about you, pun intended, must have missed the sight of you in such a scandalous position. On your back, legs sprawled open and your eyes boring hard into his lacking all of that shyness from when he first had you like this. 

You're not afraid of him but sometimes you forget how intimidating he really is; his hard eyes and his physique, every inch covered by those scars that always remind you of that part of him you don't like to think about. That part he insists that you  _don't_ think about, like he's ashamed of what it would make you think of him. You don't know what you think about it, but you suppose now isn't the time to dwell. You're too busy staring wide-eyed at the ceiling because you'd forgotten how his mouth felt on you. 

You think that maybe you're having a stroke because nothing else can explain the garbled mess of noise that comes out of your mouth, pushed there by thoughts just as incomprehensible. He's being rougher than usual, and you reach around your stomach to grab the back of his head as good as you can. Often (most) times you can't believe how good he is at that, or how big his tongue is, but you feel like giving a little praise as he angrily goes at you. You're sure he's had more than enough practice.

It must be how he feels about your incoming orgasm, because he stops right as your back arches and you want to stab him. Instead, you let out a vicious whine that makes N'Jadaka burst out laughing as if you don't actually have an attitude.

"I'm so sick of you doin' that-"

"What you gon' do about it?" he asks, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. He's already teasing you, rubbing the tip of his   daunting member on you. You'd forgotten how everything felt, and it's felt like it's been forever since that clumsy half-assed painful sex you'd had when he first got out. Truthfully, you're still worried about pain but there isn't any harsh activity from the rowdy one inside you.

N'Jadaka's so tipsy he misses the target a couple times, frowning down at his hands as he tries his damned hardest to will his dick into you. All of that lit overconfidence goes straight out the window as he gets more and more frustrated until you just have to reach down and do it yourself. You really can't believe he drove his ass home; but he corrects you with a hard push that he got dropped off. 

You try and run from him, face screwed up at the intrusion despite your arousal. He suddenly becomes gentle, telling you to relax as he pulls away to kick King out of the room. He'd just come in, claws click-clacking on the wood floor and you will not be one of those people who have sex with a pet in the room. You aren't a caveman. 

You hear the door lock and the scratching on the other side that stops the second N'Jadaka shouts at him to cut it out. He lumbers back over to you, one hand facing you palm up as if to tell you not to run away from him again.

You do it anyway and he 'tsks' at you, lifting both your legs to his shoulders. You suppose you should thank yoga for the lack of muscle screaming.

"Don't run from it," he says, voice low and deep. "Take it."

He's not even halfway in and tears are threatening to leak from your eyes. They're watering something awful, and you don't even know if your body remembers that you're not a damn virgin and you  _have_ in fact been taking N'Jadaka's roughneck ass dick for some months at this point. She forgot, you muse with a groan, and you're about to claw his eyes out if he doesn't let you adjust.

"Wait," you whisper, one arm over your eyes. He's laughing at the face you're making. "Slower."

He's amused at this whole situation. "Oh? Okay. Thought you was used to this by now but I guess I was wrong."

"Okay, you condescending ass. Keep talkin' and i'm closing up shop."

Snickering, he leans forward to plant both hands on either side of you on the bed, using nothing but his weight to keep pushing inside. With a low, teasing voice, he tries to coach you through this despite the fact that you keep rolling your eyes at him. He's doing a great job of avoiding any pressure on your stomach while simultaneously building pressure in it too. You're so focused on your own pleasure (and your reemerging back pain) that you don't even realize that you're talking until N'Jadaka claps a hand over your mouth. 

"I'mma need you to shut up," he says, breath ragged. 

"Okay."

"Breathe, and let go all of that shit about what's hurtin'. Focus on me."

You add that you can't breathe because of his hand over your mouth, and to that he shoots to breathe through your nose. He's always ordering you like you're his subordinate in the military during sex, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't kind of love it. Just like you love the way his eyes are boring into yours as he teases you with shallow thrusts. 

Then he pushes all the way in and your eyes bug out so far he has to laugh right in your face. 

"Oh, I see I gotta train this shit all over again."

 

\--

 

On the morning of your baby shower, you have another weird dream. 

Everything seemed to go wrong and the sky fell, and right as your water broke you woke up. To your surprise, N'Jadaka is right next to you, on his stomach with one arm slung over your chest. He was probably closer during the night but you're sure you kicked him away in your sleep. Hell, you're more surprised that you didn't make him sleep in the guest room by how hot and uncomfortable you feel as you peel yourself out of bed and to the bathroom. Who knows where your shorts are and one arm is out of your tee shirt, so you shed it altogether so it can join the others on the bedroom floor.

You're hardly caring of what N'Jadaka has to say about it all as you step into the shower, because if he's bothered about the mess he can clean it himself. Especially for the soreness you're feeling all over. It was good, you can't lie, but it wasn't long enough. 

God, you miss those days when he just really went in on you. And those days where Hennessy sex was the best thing that ever happened to you; not when they made him collapse ontop of you after your second orgasm like some kind of old ass man.

All throughout your morning routine you think about last night, and the dreams you've been having lately, but by the time you're pulling on a pair of cotton shorts you're back to worrying again. You have a nail appointment in an hour but rather than begin making your way down to the salon you start pestering N'Jadaka.

He predictably gets mad.

"What?"

"She hasn't moved yet today," you say, folding your arms. "That's not weird, right? She didn't move last night either."

"Maybe she sleep," he groans, turning to face the window. "Like I was before you started talkin'."

For the jab you throw a capful of water on him from the bottle on the nightstand before turning to leave. He's probably right, but you've gotten so used to your baby throwing a rave in your stomach that the absence of it is weirding you out. 

Still, you continue on with your day. 

 

* * *

 

 

For the most part, you don't see N'Jadaka at all, only communicating with him through texts asking if he's trying to arrive to the shower with you or with any of his big headed friends. You don't want this to feel like a damn wedding, but the longer you wait the more you feel nervous about it all. It's just normal jitters, you're sure, but as you sigh and get into your truck you feel like puking. 

The shower is being held at a tea room near you, and the pictures you've seen online of other peoples' events were gorgeous. It's very Victorian, brick and stone exterior and a nice classic interior with enough neutral colors to work with any theme someone may have. And you'd personally chosen pastel spring colors; yellows and pinks and creams. 

You picked the food and the dessert and the drinks, too, and left the rest to your friends. Just like the invitations. Truthfully you're a little afraid of what you may find, not for lack of trust, but because they may have done entirely too much. You're not a Housewife of some random city, your baby shower doesn't need to be the hottest event of the year. Kayla had to be talked down from presenting your arrival on a red carpet with a velvet rope. 

The phone rings, vibrating through the car on your speakers, and as soon as you answer it a deep voice rattles your eardrums. 

"We were supposed to arrive together," you sing in an overly sweet voice, putting on your left blinker. "Then you could read off the directions while I drove."

"That's the only reason why, huh," N'Jadaka says bluntly. 

"Where are you?"

There's a pause before he replies, "Astoria Tea Room."

You gasp, fussing at him for getting there before you, but he only says that he expected you to be here already. You don't here any chatter or people in the background despite the fact that the shower 'officially' began 45 minutes ago, and when you ask his answer is simple.

"The house ain't that damn far why is it takin' you so long?"

Then he hangs up, giving you prime opportunity to wonder if you want to run his ass over as you finally approach the lot. Lush trees and beautiful flowers surround the tea room and you couldn't be more impressed that your goofy friends managed to pick something so 'your taste.' You recognize nearly all of the cars, including a few from coworkers despite the fact that they not-so-subtly implied they'd be throwing you a Work Baby Shower at the office. 

N'Jadaka is standing too close to your mother's car so you can't run him over; instead you settle for parking at the spot adjacent. It's a good 80 degrees and sunny out, and your sore nether regions screamed at you to put on one of your babydoll dresses to allow yourself to actually be able to sit. It's off the shoulders and yellow, and you'd accidentally bought it with N'Jadaka's credit card before really comprehending how much it actually cost.

A lot.

It's soft and cute, though, so there's that and you think your entire look pulls together really well. Hair, makeup, lashes, nails; it's been so long since you'd actually felt like putting effort into your appearance that you somehow feel overdressed despite the fact that you're the guest of honor. 

N'Jadaka looks you up and down as you approach him, frowning at your dress before looking back up to meet your eyes.

"That's my 400 dollar dress?" he asks, leaning against the trunk of his car. "That you  _accidentally_ bought?"

You shrug. "You've spent that much on me many times, sir."

"Yeah but I got more than one damn thing. That dress short as hell  _and_ it ain't even got straps."

You're quick to remind him why the two of you are here, and that is  _not_ to bicker endlessly about stupid stuff. And while it is your favorite thing to do with him (among other things) it's not really important right now. He seems to get that, too, after a brief moment of silence that ends when he makes a comment about how good you look today.

You say likewise, appreciating the fact that he's wearing those gold-rimmed glasses that you like so much. His chains, the grills, the dreads and the baggy jeans and the sneakers; all equally wonderful and equally intimidating to those of your party that have yet to meet him. You can tell by the way some of your aunts and uncles regard him as the two of you step inside,and you can see your aunt Essie looking behind him to see if his pants are sagging so you'll have to hear one of her infamously long lectures about 'young men needing to pull up their damn pants.'

The decorations are more interesting, though, and throughout each long hello and hug you're staring at the color scheme and table decor in silent admiration. Gorgeous pastel colors that all match the theme you'd chosen; honeybees and flowers, and the room reeks of roses in the best way. On each table there are pitchers of water and a few straggling cans of Coke or Sprite, but otherwise no food. All of the beautiful yellow rose centerpieces have cute little foam honeybees peppered randomly ontop of them. You can't help but wonder how much all of this costs as you stare starry eyed at the very back wall and all of the desserts, gifts, and wooden frame on the wall with a yellow 'K' in the middle of it. 

"Wow-"

Kayla cuts you off, and you hadn't even seen her trying to get your attention. "Okay! Guest of honor is here time to eat I'm starving!"

She makes sure to bring it to your attention her and Sydney and your mother have been threatening folks with beatings if they touched the food before you got here and that has you laughing as you go to find a seat farther from the door. You keep looking to N'Jadaka to see his reaction to all this, but he seems to be too focused on staring at the light fixtures to seem too bothered by all this theatricality. He even puts on that faux-affable face of his, where he gets good at pretending to be bothered and his voice holds less edge in an effort to seem less threatening. It's a scary tactic, and it's weird seeing it in such a non-scary context.

You'd jokingly called it his customer service voice and it's so funny watching him pretend like he cares about what your uncles are rambling about, only to throw you a side eye when they aren't looking. 

Your nosy family and even nosier friends don't let N'Jadaka breath for what feels like an hour, and when he does finally sink into a chair next to you he seems socially drained. 

He tells you your uncles talk too much and to that you're inclined to agree, chuckling through probably your third bowl of cold pasta salad.  You'd been stockpiling food just in case it took him too long to get back, so you slide the three mini-plates toward him with a little bit of everything on it. 

"Got a lot to say about you," he goes, staring at all of the chattering people. 

"I'm sure," you reply glumly, because they always do. "What is it now? How you can see more of my jawline now more than before I was pregnant? Or...i'm not eating enough? How about that my baby daddy is a roughneck prince but like..super Woke? Oh my god, did someone ask you to introduce them to T'Challa?"

He snorts before confirming that all of that did indeed come up and that makes you laugh harder than you have all day. The table you're at has a perfect view of most of the room, giving you reason to spend a lot of the time just people-watching and whispering jokes to the man next to you. Occasionally he goes too far and you end up choking on your drink or food and smacking him on the arm as he guffaws next to you. 

It's comfortable, and the atmosphere is nice, but you feel a subtle shift when the cardstock for one of the baby shower games gives away Her name. 

All attempts at bringing N'Jadaka's attention back to you or the food or something other than four words on the shiny card probably printed at FedEx end in failure, but he doesn't seem mad. Not angry or furious or anything but melancholy as you watch him sort of visibly deflate as he stares at her name. 

" _I_ wanted to tell you," you say indignantly, staring at the bingo board like it stole something from you. "It's pretty, isn't it?"

And he just looks at you, like you think you're slick for pretending that you've randomly decided to give your baby his mother's name. The odds are never that great for you and if they were you'd have won the lottery long ago. Although you suppose you have, in a way. 

You don't know much about Kaya Stevens and neither did T'Challa, but from what little information you were able to achieve by snooping and being aided in said snooping, you gathered that she died in jail. That the entire fiasco that brought N'Jadaka to become who he did was all for her. It sucks, and it made you sad, but you can't think of a more fitting tribute.

You ask if he's mad at you and he shakes his head, but that guarded look in his eyes as he tells you he's going to get some air says that he's at least deep in his own thoughts. Still, you nod and scoot over so he can pass, not wanting to interfere on his quiet moment.

Sydney and Kayla join you, then, and the three of you watch him saunter over to the open door that is soon blocked by two figures you can't see all that clearly yet. When they step out of the blaring sunlight coming in from the doorway you probably are mimicking N'Jadaka's facial expression to a T.  _That_ you can see from here, especially the way he looks one of his boys up and down as he walks past with none other than that Alphabetic Roach with mediocre music and a maybe-vendetta against you. 

You'd scoffed at the idea of her being so petty and so batshit insane that she'd continuously try and slight you in ever way that she can but now that she's currently approaching you with her bone straight platinum blonde hair you can't help but believe it. 

"____, congratulations," she says, voice dripping in so much fake sugar you're gaining weight by the second. 

Outside of your bubble, no one is actually paying you any attention; your oldhead relatives don't know who B is nor do they particularly care. To her, she's just another guest, so they pay no mind to the way you look at her when you slowly move to your feet. You don't want to admit how nice the wig is, despite the fact that her hairline is clockable so therefore your sleeked back curly ponytail wins, but you do succeed in not throwing up in her eyes so you suppose it's a win for her as well.

The man who's attached to her hip you recognize as Damian, the one who was apparently dating the airheaded chick that kept answering N'Jadaka's phone, and for a fleeting moment you feel bad for her despite never meeting her in your life. You're positive she had to have been the one of many.  And  _no_ one deserves to be dumped for the fashion anomaly currently holding a gift bag out to you.

"Is this a bomb?" you ask flatly, not even attempting to take it. "Or is it empty? You find it in a dumpster or is it something Erik gave you back when he thought you were the best he could do?"

Behind you, Kayla snorts like a pig because it's always  the first noise she makes when she suddenly laughs, while B decides to throw out a fake one while mentioning that you 'got jokes.'

But that fake smile of hers isn't reaching her eyes; she looks bothered by the fact that you aren't bothered. And when you (too) loudly declare that you aren't joking, that entire delusional facade she's put up starts cracking. That same delusion that made her refuse to acknowledge that N'Jadaka is over her (you hope), is the same that made her think she could accompany one of his boys to your baby shower on the guise that since he's a friend of his she won't immediately be kicked out. 

You think you've been around N'Jadaka too long because for a second you truly want to shove a fork in her eye, but instead you point to the door behind them. If she's truly out to get you like N'Jadaka paranoia claims, then she can't be given too many more chances to look in your damn direction before you catch a case. 

 _Now_ everyone is looking at you , because you've decided to have another out-of-body experience as you fuss, cuss, berate, threaten, and otherwise insult this 'garbage pail kid ass bitch' as her new boytoy tries to keep her from touching you. They bump into N'jadaka, who hasn't moved from his spot in the door way, and the second he shoves Damian you're expecting a fight to break out. 

Only it doesn't, because he stumbles and falls out of the room, leaving B to try and open her mouth one more time just to tell you that you got her sloppy seconds and it ain't shit to be proud of.

All you say is, "Yup, sure did," right before the deafening sound of your hand meeting her cheek. 

Normally, you aren't one to lay hands if the first party hasn't touched you yet, but you don't care. Much like the first time you popped her in the mouth, she hadn't touched you, but it doesn't matter. She talks too damn much and had come not to be friendly but to ruin your day with her childish attitude.

You watch her stumble out right after Damian, wobbling like a baby horse on account of her broken heel, and no matter how much she tries to get back up to fight you 'because your face ain't goddamn pregnant,' you just observe. For a second, you're afraid of where your mind goes, while N'Jadaka seems impressed when the two of you lock eyes in the ornate Tea Room entranceway.

The threats she screams to you as Damian tries to yank her back into the waiting car seem empty. Awful, yet empty, but you have someone growing inside you now and you can't chance an empty threat.

When you look at N'Jadaka again, he seems to be vibrating with quiet rage. Threats to his own will simply not be tolerated, and as the black car screeches away you shake your head at the fact that the two of you seem to attract absolute madness.

(Actually, it's him. Just him, but you're in for the ride now).

He just looks down at you and you look up at him, and it may be bad and awful and downright terrible what you say to him in your eyes and your kiss. You don't care who can see you or what they have to say when you pull his face down to meet yours  or the way his hand goes around your neck to hold your chin in place. 

N'Jadaka smirks as he lets your face go before turning away and moving toward his dope car with that silent stride you love so much. No one at the baby shower knows what the two of you have communicated just now, not your parents or your cousins or your coworkers or your friends; having materialized next to you with gaping mouths.

You're about to have a beautiful baby and it's ruined your tolerance for bullshit. Something dark rose up in you when B let those fuckass insults leave her mouth about what she'll do to you and to him and to all of you for disrespecting her. Something that you don't quite feel as much now, but a remnant of her is still in your eyes as you calmly watch N'Jadaka drive away. Just like with Devon, any and everyone that threatens to destroy what little peace you have deserves all and the same.

 

Fire & Blood. 

 

 

 


End file.
